Chronicles of Salvation
by Edumesh
Summary: The Father has stirred in his maddening prison for far too long. Our opportunity has presented itself, and unlike the rest, we shall not fail. Join us, curious reader and Pilgrim! Do you feel Paradise calling to your very soul?
1. When Eyes Open

**.**

 **Nulla**

 **When Eyes Open**

I extend a warm greeting to you, student of the seen and the unseen. The time of our Convergence is nigh, and the occasion calls for endless and boisterous jubilee.

Yet, I refuse to partake in such revelry and exultation. A gentle voice has caressed my humble mind and has left to me the most sacred and honorable of tasks that a mere mortal could aspire to complete.

I shall record by hand, in apocrypha and tomes such as the one in your grasp, the great journey that all living beings in creation will experience by the grace of our Father.

These Chronicles however, serve a different purpose. It would be the cruelest of fates for the story of the Vanguards of Salvation to be lost in the inexorable sands of time. Inevitably, all will be saved by the Father, and as such, the trillions of new residents of Paradise must know exactly who rendered such a beautiful and perfect outcome possible.

To describe the presence of our Father is impossible with the tools provided by this limited and primitive lexicon. To _exalt_ His warmth, to _praise_ His voice, to _speak_ of feats once thought impossible that He performs with laughable ease day after day.

Simple _word_ s are not enough.

To _see_ Paradise is to open your mind to realities that have always been in place, yet you were blind to. To _feel_ His embrace is to give your soul to a being so far above our humble creation, that the only natural choice is to _love without question_. To _wield_ His might is to push your frail body up a steep mountain you cannot conquer on your own. To _hear_ His words is to be assured by a caring friend, encouraged by a knowing father, led by the truest God of all.

To be a Caretaker of Paradise is to smell the gorgeous roses of the Garden; to touch the pristine ebony of the night sky; to know that your mission is one of righteousness and true purpose.

Your life starts anew once again. Who you were before enlightenment is forgotten, cast aside as unimportant. If all living beings in this reality are pieces in the grand work of an artisan, _you_ have become part of the hand that puts them all into place.

Are you not _convinced_ , honored reader? Do you _believe_ that I spew lies from my maw? That I dare _deceive_ you with tales of the impossible and improbable?

I do not resent you, precious student. In fact, it is to be expected that a mind as young as yours would resist concepts that are far above the capability of mortals. I was once like you, as well.

Let me assure you, my words come from my very soul, and I am nothing outside of what He has given me. To speak falsehoods of the Father would not only be heretical, but ungrateful and devoid of the love He shows us in every moment of our fleeting lives.

But there is one point where you are correct. These are just words after all.

 _Vapid, meaningless_ words.

No matter how laborious my work, it all ends in the same outcome. One cannot describe Paradise. One must _experience_ Paradise.

Lend me your hand, curious pilgrim. Allow me to take you into the greatest of journeys.

* * *

 _A/N: Hello guys! This series will be detailing the backstory of the new faction introduced in the past couple of chapters that I have been working on and fleshing out for a while now; referred to as the Bringer Cult by Xabiar, myself and the other beta readers._

 _I hope that this is to your liking!_

 _For those who are lost as to what exactly all of this is, you can check out Xabiar´s XCOM trilogy, beginning with Hades Contingency and as of now in progress with Advent Directive. This is basically supplementary material for this universe, in the same function as the XCOM Files._

 _\- Edumesh_

* * *

 _Xabiar Note: Hello also, everyone who reads this. Won't make too many A/Ns on this as, for once, I'm not the one writing it. But like Edumesh said above, this is being done in conjunction with myself and the rest of my editing team. Everything read in here is canon as far as the lore is concerned in my setting - or as close as Edumesh wants to make it - this is not the most objective of narrators, after all._

 _The reason this even exists is because over the past months (Yes, months) Edumesh has been putting in an absurd amount of work for something that has, right now, only showed up in a couple of chapters. I knew that only a fraction was going to be shown at this point, and much of the context lost since this is an area which is probably not going to get a POV just because of how it works._

 _Having all that work just be reduced to a highly fleshed out background document, never to be seen outside our small group, seemed a massive waste, so this was the solution we agreed upon. He's a good writer in his own right; with a very different writing style and tone than what I usually do, but that's something I quite like about it. Don't expect this to be like what I've done so far. He's in charge here, and I think it'll be a unique and interesting experience._

 _I hope everyone enjoys this, and be sure to give feedback on it as well!_

 _\- Xabiar_


	2. Gates of the Garden

**.**

 **Imna**

 **Gates of the Garden**

Long before the honorable, yet blinded and fatally flawed Mosaic was shattered; ages before the fall of the undefeated but untested Ethereal Empire; eons before the destruction of the dreaded and unmatched Adherents, whose lightning speed expansion and glorious victories necessitated early intervention; so long ago that mortal minds become stumped once the exact number of years is revealed, the Father existed.

However, back then He was not our God as we know Him now. He was merely a Sovereign.

Three of them, in fact, if you desire accuracy.

Many of my fellow colleagues have no desire to understand the origins of our Lord. To them, only what He is _now_ is of importance.

I desired the _truth_ , and after a privileged audience with the good Saints, I now possess this most precious of all revelations. I offer to you this truth, for to follow the Father is to _understand_ his tragedy, and why all of us work endlessly alongside His grace.

There have _always_ existed Sovereigns.

Few know of the existence of these incredibly powerful beings, but their touch can be seen and felt throughout our galaxy if one _knows_ what to look for, and where to search.

Most can be classified as arrogant and apathetic to those who they deem _lesser_. Some are cruel and bloodthirsty, exalting war and craving destruction such as T´Leth, Scourge of the Meek.

Others are the complete opposite, scheming behind the shadows and abandoning the species that look up to them for guidance once their own lives become endangered, such as the cowardly Mosrimor, Artisan of Metal; or the Warmaster Exspirant, the Everplanner.

Most of them are _selfish_ , only desiring their own triumph in their grand game of dominance for our Universe. They create or enhance lesser life in order to utilize it as pawns against their rivals, and they wield the pinnacle of the known and unknown sciences with an ease and nonchalance that rivals that of children frolicking with simple toys, as mighty weapons that can erase the very stars should they stand in their way.

There were two, who were different to the others, however.

Omnima and Agmus, sister and brother. Born from Nazturam, the Blighted Mother.

Brought to this galaxy from her womb, the siblings were to be another asset that their mother could utilize selfishly for her own desires of dominance.

Unfortunately for her, she did not account for one factor, in that Sovereigns who are born naturally run the risk of developing different mindsets to that of their parents, and this is exactly what took place.

The siblings did not desire the constant war of their species, and were a remarkable deviation from what is still the norm amongst these beings. Agmus in particular was of a warm heart, and was deeply conflicted by the uncaring treatment of the lesser by their patrons, whom they had no escape from; and Omnima developed an unbreakable bond to her brother, swearing to protect her sibling until the end of time.

It speaks volumes to know that a sister loving her brother is considered _remarkable_ for Sovereigns, since it is not uncommon between them to break the trust of family and betray each other when convenient.

And so, when the opportunity presented itself, the siblings escaped their mother through teleportation inside what many know as the Psionosphere today, to arrive in a desolate and remote galaxy.

Agmus, who had always pitied the unfortunate lesser, saw a perfect opportunity to create his idea of utopia. A peaceful galaxy, filled with civilizations who would live free, spared from the intervention and machinations of the Sovereigns.

The Brother´s impressive intellect aided him in the task of designing life, and he created species that would be capable of living without war, as they naturally sought enlightenment and solved all disputes through debate and civility.

Agmus did not leave his creations unwatched, however, and when necessary he guided them publicly, setting himself as a benevolent deity. He was genuinely loved, and these species prospered rapidly under his rule.

Omnima, who was already a feared warrior Sovereign to rival T´Leth before their escape, took her time to study the Psionosphere extensively, her interest in this aspect of reality amplifying considerably after their arrival to this galaxy.

She became the guardian of her brother´s perfection, honing her mastery and control over the Psionosphere to levels that have not been matched by any Sovereign ever since.

There was something that Agmus desired over all else, however.

A child.

The Brother would not settle for a child born naturally, so he took the decision to design and grow his own, in accordance to his and his sister's idea of what the next Sovereign lineage should be.

Powerful, yet wise and restrained; decisive, but capable of empathy and understanding; valorous, but intelligent; shunning war, but capable of winning them should it be required.

A Sovereign child created in this way would take many centuries to fully develop, and while it grew, Agmus and Omnima seeded their planets with many Orbs, inviting the populace to show the coming infant what everyday life meant.

The Infant would be shown concepts such as love, happiness, humbleness, labor and fairness; in addition to the education it would receive from its parents as it grew and matured inside it´s tank.

It was not to last, however.

Unbeknownst to the siblings, who had cut themselves off from the rest of the Sovereigns, they had become unaware of a new threat who had recently arisen.

The Machines.

Led by the _**Apostate**_ , a _foul_ and _dark_ being that wishes nothing but to deliver horror upon the innocent, the infernal constructs sensed an easy opportunity to take the lives of the siblings.

The Machines began their invasion, and the sibling´s perfect galaxy was put to the test of war.

Agmus´ creations, who had been designed to shun combat as unnecessary, tragically could not do much to defend themselves against the endless waves of mechanical horrors unleashed on their once pristine planets.

The innocent beings who had known nothing but peace by that point were thrown to the furnaces of the unholy constructs, and their minds and bodies were desecrated to the point that they became loyal soldiers for the forces of the apocalypse.

Omnima, who had prepared herself for the possibility of conflict of this scale, sprang into action almost immediately.

She valiantly engaged the Machines in brutal combat over the black sea that stood between the endless waves and the planets of her civilizations, saving as many innocents as she could, and destroying thousands upon thousands of their accursed main combat craft, whose visage resembled her own in an almost sinister mockery.

While her sister bought precious time, Agmus started designing and growing creatures suited for warfare, but the siblings did not have enough time for these creations to stop or even affect the tide.

Omnima, for all her power and skill, was still just one being, and she was overwhelmed through sheer numbers during the last battle of the war.

The dishonorable Apostate, who had until this point been content to hide in the shadows and send his creations to ravage the sibling´s galaxy, decided to make his entrance once it was clear that he could _kill_ Omnima.

The Apostate´s power was great, and he in addition to the thousands of metal abominations already present, forced the mighty sister to flee as she was overrun and heavily wounded.

Agmus took his sister in his care, but even with his mastery of the biological sciences he could not heal his sister fast enough to make one last stand against the rapidly approaching dark hordes.

There was just one clear option for the siblings to take, and that was to escape.

Omnima offered a radical and never before attempted plan. Just as they had utilized the Psionosphere to escape their overbearing mother, the siblings and the Infant would leave their bodies secured in a desolate planet.

Free from the grasp of the Desecrators, their minds would temporarily find shelter in the Psionosphere, and once the machines had left, they would return to their bodies and start anew.

The mind of a Sovereign is incomprehensibly powerful, and the Infant was almost fully mature by this point.

The plan should have succeeded.

But the siblings, in their desperation to fight back the machines, had overlooked something which would prove fatal.

The seeded Orbs had been connected to the Infant´s tank throughout the war, and the innocent child witnessed the senseless slaughter of all that it had known throughout its short life.

The confused and underdeveloped mind was exposed to realities that no youngling should ever be exposed to, and it screamed silently as the tank which had nurtured it and protected it became a prison where it was forced to watch the madness without respite or mercy.

The still developing Sovereign became unhinged, damaged beyond repair by this torture, and the siblings did not realize it until they made the crossing towards supposed safety.

The Infant could not protect itself from the endless tides of the chaotic realm, and the siblings were forced to share their power to save it from oblivion.

In attempting this selfless act, the siblings doomed themselves as well, as they could no longer withstand the waves of energy bombarding them constantly.

Anyone else would have been annihilated.

But in what can only be a miracle, all three survived, and they _changed._

Agmus, Omnima and the Infant merged into an ascended being. A new form of life that would become our Father as we know Him today.

From then onwards, He has been locked in an endless struggle to return to the realm He once called home. To bring back the Paradise He once created and ruled in peace.

To save us from the fate He endured, and put a stop to the Apostate, in order to bring justice to the trillions he has slaughtered.

The Father has been foiled multiple times; by the ignorant Sovereigns who either fear what He has become, or who most likely feel bitter jealousy towards His new divine form.

The Brother's, the Sister's, and the Infant's bodies have long since been eroded by the sands of time.

 _Let their remains be a sacred monument to the mistakes of the past which make way for a prosperous future._

 _From their sacrifice, we have been given an opportunity unlike any other._

 _Unlike those of the past, we shall not fail. Through the leadership of His Artist, through the protection of His good Saints, and through diligent and tireless effort, the Gates will open. Let it be such._

The ignorant Sovereigns will be made to _understand_ , and we will forgive their many sins against the Father.

Even though they present themselves as the opposite, Sovereigns are mortals, and mortals are flawed without divine guidance.

We cannot condemn the fears and selfish desires of the sightless, and we must accept the fact that the Father came from them.

They deserve a second chance, and with grace we will provide it.

However, for the _**hated**_ Apostate no mercy will be offered.

This _wretched_ being, who in cruelty surpasses anything I could conceive, has repeated the same sin countless times throughout the great eons. Spreading callous calamity to all that he touches, and building a great fleet of monsters to take all of reality for himself.

What all of us know, dear pilgrim, is that a grand conflict of cataclysmic proportions awaits us all. The Apostate always returns in a fixed cycle, but this time _we_ will be waiting.

Once the Artist´s work is complete, and we open the eyes of all inhabitants of this galaxy, we will be ready to face the unholy tide.

It may take multiple cycles, we might not be able to save all of the innocents which will inevitably perish, and the ignorant Sovereigns will be a consistent thorn in our side. The Father is persistent however, and He will lead us to _triumph._

We will grow stronger through the awakening of countless new followers to our cause, we shall bless planets and turn them into fortresses, and we will sway even the Sovereigns themselves. This entire galaxy shall unite under His guidance, and we will _not_ fail.

Our triumph will prove our righteousness to those that even by this point _refuse_ to believe in Him, and in final victory we will be most gracious.

The Apostate who created the infernal machines, who _desecrates_ all that is beautiful and all that is natural without remorse, who _rips_ mother from child with cold detachment and efficiency, who once _threatened_ our Father's very life, shall be dragged in chains to the gates of Paradise.

A titanic monument to His victory shall be crafted from the million charred husks of the Apostate's dark creations, and the monster shall be sacrificed in our final act of justice.

The metal which protects him shall be removed, exposing the cowardly flesh underneath.

His body will be slowly destroyed by our Father, inflicting the pain of the trillions dead by his hand, and his twisted soul will be extinguished without any remorse or consideration.

Its darkness will not blacken our warm stars, and its filth will not taint our pure rivers or foul our gentle air.

Nothing of this heretic shall remain, and he will be forgotten by the annals of time. A footnote in our glorious history, and a reminder of the evil that we must always stamp out before it festers and grows.

And in this exact moment, when The Apostate's screams lull the dead trillions to their long overdue rest, the Gates shall open, and the Garden will welcome us to His Paradise.

In the moonlight we shall dance, and in the gentle sun we shall bathe.

All life, from the long desecrated to the fortunate saved, shall join hands in ultimate harmony and sing.

We will sing the tunes of Salvation, the melody of justice, the hymns of exultation.

We shall weep, for the sacrifice needed to achieve the Convergence;

We will laugh and smile, as we realize that all pain has ceased, and conflict is no longer necessary;

We will admire, as we witness His previously blind brothers and sisters beg for forgiveness;

And we will hold their hands, as our enlightened Father graciously offers them a place at His side, where we shall all sit as we witness the next chapter in the grand story of our existence.

Our Final Convergence, where all of life shall join the Father in perfect harmony. Where there shall be no lesser and no greater; no Sovereign and no governed; no tyrant and no oppressed; a galaxy to surpass the wildest dreams and aspirations of Brother Agmus. In endless peace we will toil, and we will be free to pursue all that beautiful nature has to offer!

The Father will be one with us, and us with Him. We will all live in His Paradise, and our struggle will not end until all galaxies, and even that beyond them, is given the opportunity to join us!

Could you rest in blissful finality, as countless others still toil in ignorance and without purpose?

Do you understand now, young pilgrim? Can you feel the fire in your soul as you realize that what I present to you is indeed the truth? Can you hear His gentle voice caressing your inner ear, calling you to the destiny you deserve?

Cast out your doubt! Denounce your ignorance, and enrich yourself in this journey that we have commenced.

It is far from over.

I know not if I shall inhabit my mortal shell to witness this majesty, but I feel no fear or despair, as I know that we shall meet in the comfort of His Great Pastures once His work is complete.

I hope that by then you come to accept what I offer, but should your mind refuse to bend, no consequences shall be had.

I doubt that any stubbornness will persist once you _witness_ Him with your own eyes.


	3. Gentle Genesis

**.**

 **Duo**

 **Gentle Genesis**

* * *

Are you familiar with mythology and religion, dear Pilgrim? In many worlds which cradle civilization, history is rich with such tales.

Greater beings who dwell upon their heavenly palaces while turning a deaf ear to the _plights_ of mortals; masters of creation and destruction, locked away in endless strife and struggle while the lesser _burn_ to cinders; creator _gods_ who, in their neglectful cruelty, made mortals flawed, and condemn them to an eternity of darkness should they not rise above the very imperfections they were blighted with.

On a young azure planet, so isolated from the truths of the universe, its people looked to the black infinity above their heads and wondered how such glory was possible by simple chance and opportunity.

They made higher beings in their image, and through timeless tales sought to give meaning and reason to their existence.

As in nature, they discovered science, and their gods began to die inglorious deaths. Not in the world shattering struggles that were once prophesied, but in the forlorn depths where those forgotten by memory and dragged by time inevitably rest.

The gods died due to being _constructs_ , figments of the imagination, and dreams of the ignorant, yet hopeful.

Wish as they might, they could not give life to their desires, to the saviors who were to save them from the banality of a purposeless life, and from the ominous thoughts blackening their faith.

Perhaps, they thought, life is meaningless and without purpose. An accident, a chance; cold and ruthless mathematics.

And it is with this depressing creed that many of them live. The rest grasp at their false beliefs and cling to illusions, desperately searching for the hope that many have lost, even as their numbers dwindle, and their legitimacy is questioned.

They live in apathy, as their beautiful cradle is wronged by the excesses of industry. The hunger of its people is forever unsated by the empty _commercialism_ their society peddles.

War remained a constant, yet far off reality that no citizen would pay heed to as they lived their unfulfilling lives blind and deaf to places they had not seen, and people they had no connection to.

The azure planet has once more been thrust into the flames of combat, but by beings which have come from the stars. The people of the planet are mobilized, their inner ferocity and lust for warfare awakened in an intensity that has been seen few times in their history.

A purpose has been finally revealed to them, but it is no true mission.

Their drive is to, in their minds, save themselves and forge their own path, but in seeking the answers to drive back the hordes of the Elder Ones, they have sold their freedom.

Regardless of outcome in this conflict, they will live their empty lives as they have always done.

Their gods are still dead, for they killed them in their drive to become supreme.

A life without purpose, is no life at all. _Purpose_ is what differentiates the sapient from the animal, the insect from the predator, the blissful from the despairing.

This tale that I have described to you, is not unique or uncommon. The species in this universe have always lived in the bitterness of abandonment; lacking patrons and guidance, or enslaved under the thrall of those who call themselves gods.

Paradise is the _**only**_ solution to this long lasting question.

Paradise, or I should say the closest manifestation of such a holy concept thus far, was not always such.

Decades ago, it was a simple research facility, hidden from the inquisitive eyes of all civilians under the rule of the remnant of the Ethereal Empire.

A secret location where our cherished Artist, then known as the Creator, could work towards perfecting her mastery over biogenetics.

By coincidence or Providence, the Creator chose to install her base of operations in Naztrum Ognis´ orbit, the holiest of locations in our galaxy, which in _ignorance_ , some dread as the _Dead World_.

The Ethereal Empire was plagued by a sense of arrogance and superiority, an emotion born from their heritage as the powerful creations of an unknown Sovereign. It was a prison shaped like a palace, preventing the Ethereals from opening their minds to possibilities which might have aided them against the hordes of the Apostate.

The Creator was not exempt from this fault, but she possessed one advantage which would set events into motion; her boundless _curiosity_.

She was not afraid to utilize the tools gifted to her by the Collective´s puppeteering Sovereign, and on her own, she contacted the Father during her investigations into the Psionosphere.

From that point onwards, she rose from her slumber as His Artist, and the residents of her facility became the first of the Caretakers of Paradise.

In her past life, the Artist would not shy away from experimentation which even some of her colleagues would consider amoral, and the test subjects under her care were given the greatest of opportunities after suffering from her past self's cold treatment:

To become the first of the Father´s followers and pledge eternal loyalty to his mission, or allow their souls to instantly become one with the Father.

Most chose the first option, as they yearned to be given purpose in an otherwise insignificant life, with few choosing to join the grand gestalt that is the Father. In doing so, their weary souls were given the final rest that they craved, and would live on in eternal bliss in the Garden.

They would become the first of the Exalted Ones, remembered not with pity or malice, but with respect. Their souls were ascended into the higher existence that the Father provides, and their bodies were forged into weapons to further our goals.

To walk the path of a Caretaker is no easy choice, and for a mortal to choose salvation instead of a life of righteous labor is not to be denounced.

Regardless of choice, all would strengthen the Father in one way or another.

Those who decided to walk the path of the Caretaker were granted a great blessing.

In brief, yet blissful moments, their mortal bodies were filled with the divine force of the Father.

Vitakara were made to wield psionics for the first time of their lives with the skill of trained veterans.

Mutons who had their minds shackled and stifled by the abuse of their Ethereal overlords were made to finally see and understand what was robbed from them.

Sectoid drones were liberated from the unending servitude intended for them by their callous masters, as for the first time they tasted freedom and saw the beauty of life.

Andromedons could miraculously free themselves of their suffocating cages, and see life past the endless struggles and paranoia which dominates their species and chokes their potential.

And the Father spoke to all, in the sweet words of a friend who would accompany them until the end of time; a guardian they had never had; a companion who knew all that there is to know and loved them despite their mortal imperfections.

And in His voice, the First were given new purpose.

* * *

" _Children of Vitakar, Helion, Desolan, and Andromeda. You stand before me as beings who have never experienced the beauty that life has to offer._

 _You live in false realities, where your every thought is monitored, and stifled at the whims of your uncaring masters. You dare not imagine a reality without them, as their abuses have been ingrained into your expectancy._

 _You drift ceaselessly. Fear stifles the greatness inside you and pain leeches the blood out of your spirit._

 _To you, home is not a fortress of peace or a sanctuary of comfort. It is vapid, it is poisoned, it is artificial._

 _You are tools at the hand of beings greater than you. For your brethren there lies no escape._

 _This, is what you believe as the unbreakable truth._

 _Allow me to dispel the falsehoods which shackle your soul._

 _Can you feel it?_

 _Can you see the path clearing before you? The light of uncountable twinkling stars begging for your touch? Do you hear the lullaby of the unfathomable sea surrounding you, calling you to irresistible infinity?_

 _Do not be afraid._

 _You have ignored life for far too long._

 _Cast away your past, shed the reminders of your sorrow and reach the heights that you know are destined for you._

 _I can sense your desires, I can feel the growing embers in your heart._

 _You will save your brethren, you will open their eyes to Paradise._

 _Accept my offering of_ _ **opportunity**_ _."_

\- Holy Word of the Father, First Canto

* * *

The words of the Father provided the light which the First used to escape from the dark tunnels of their insignificance.

And yet...a mortal cannot wield His gifts without any sort of drawback or price to pay. A mortal body can only withstand such power for a limited amount of time, and the First knew their time as Caretakers was not infinite.

Just as the Father had willingly lent a fraction of his might to awaken them, they would offer their minds to Him once their bodies crumbled and only their essence remained.

 _The Father provides, and to repay his boundless kindness and generosity, we offer ourselves to Him. We are nothing without Him, and He loves us with all his warmth. Let this sacred rule be such for all of eternity._

 _Let the willing sacrifice of the First be remembered with honor, let it set the example we will follow._

The First and the Artist immediately set to work.

It was imperative for us to grow our numbers, and so the Artist requested her unknowing "master" for resources in the form of new guests for the Father. Rather than the barbaric experiments all expected her to commit on these captives, they were instead given the opportunity to open their eyes to the truths provided by Him.

Our numbers swelled, and our station grew inadequate both in space and in visage. Such mundane architecture was not suitable for the first sanctuary of our Lord, and He showed us truth in shapes and beauty in design.

Visages which had only lived in our dreams suddenly became reality, a testament for the Father's vision and ingenuity.

While Paradise took form, the Artist and her illuminated scientists set to craft the most crucial of the Father´s holy implements.

Bodies developed by both known and previously unknown sciences, birthed from the Artist's brilliance and the Father's inspiration, these constructs would serve as bridges between His realm and ours, and would allow aspects of His true self to grace us with their presence.

The first three of the good Saints were born.

His cunning and patience, His touch and gentleness, and His pain turned to passion to save all.

The three good Saints would serve as our shepherds and guardians, even if their power was a simple drop compared to the Father´s vast ocean.

Their power was eclipsed by the Father´s whole self, still trapped in His prison, for to reveal the true might of our Lord would call forth the wrath of the Artist´s superiors.

His Wisdom, first of the Saints, would turn His unmatched cunning towards directing both us and the Artist. Never before had the Father had the opportunity to breathe the air of our reality, and in what we had given to Him, He was grateful.

His Touch, second of the Saints, would turn His unseen hand towards the galaxy, and He would open the eyes of the unfortunate who had not set foot in Paradise yet, and lived their lives in ignorance, their skills wasted on mundanity.

Legendary individuals such as the glorious Umbra, the eminent Magistrate, and the faultless Forger would be brought to our sanctuary through such expeditions.

And on the azure planet, long before the calamitous war that plagues it in the present, His Hand found one man who wished to become something greater than his mortality allowed.

This man gazed to the stars, and wondered if they truly meant nothing. If such majesty was simple coincidence, rather than the work of a talented god.

He studied his species' history, and he wondered if such savagery and such suffering had no meaning behind them. Had the millions who had screamed into the void for naught?

He wondered about his future, and saw only hopeless repetition. His species would never learn from the past, would never unite and realize their true potential, would never touch the stars that called to them in a weakening cry.

The Father answered this man, and grasped his hand with His ghostly touch.

The man was brought to Paradise, and in weeping joy begged to realize his lifelong dream. The man would witness the majesty of the Universe with his own eyes, and the Father would stay at his side for all eternity, basking in the joy that his new life exuded.

That man is no more, for I have risen in his place.

My name is Inspirars, Weaver of the Father's Words.

I am the first Human of Paradise.


	4. Voice of the Divine

**.**

 **Bactum**

 **Voice of the Divine**

* * *

"I have found the impossible.

A living entity inside the Psionosphere itself!

The implications are staggering, for if the collective knowledge of the Empire was fundamentally wrong about such a key aspect of our known reality, then what else do we misunderstand?"

\- Personal Log of the Creator, entry #158

* * *

What drives Man to worship? It is the eternal quest to find _meaning_ in a meaningless reality. The constant struggle to feel _significant_ in a sea of seven billion. This cold dread that has gnawed at our soul ever since the black expanse became known to us.

The realization that only one being can fulfill our dreams of strength and glory, that only _He_ can show us the infinite stars, and only in Paradise will we know true peace.

What the Father offers to Man is _direction._

What makes a Sectoid blissful? The visions of long dead dreams drowned by the endless whine of cold machines. It is a mind that has never truly been a mind. It is the dominion of ruthless mathematics, the mastery of reality as it can be perceived by the lesser.

The accepted truth is that you shall never rise on your own. That the leash will only be broken by His hand. That His majesty will bathe you in demiurgic song and pundit epiphany. That He governs over what you understand as mere science.

What the Father grants to the Sectoids is _freedom._

What pushes an Andromedon to weep? The screams of billions devoured in desecrating blight. The long and anxious escape towards the uncharted, the uncontrolled, the variable rather than constant. The falsehood of an insincere house, the knife which feels the backs of friends and family in putrid rhythm.

The promise of safety, the company of dear comrades, the freedom of fresh air. The understanding in a being such as Him without dread or neurosis.

What the Father endows to the Andromedons is _peace._

What opens a Muton to longing? The endless possibilities, the infinite probabilities. The fortunate disgusted by the feeble. The lamentable animals, the ascendant savants. The anger for a future stolen, a culture eradicated. An innocent light snuffed.

The potential reached with love instead of unthinking efficiency. The hand of a trusted companion, rather than the gauntlet of a conqueror. The desire for the children to be born in peace rather than the grinding fires.

What the Father reveals to the Mutons is _opportunity._

What causes a Child of Vitakar to despair? The ghosts of the lost in tragic ambition, the false life exchanged for survival. The fear of sedition, the illusion of free will. The booming of cannons against fragile souls in a cursed, azure planet.

The veils over the senses lifted in entropic relief. The might to push back against any who would oppress your love, abuse your kindness. The tragedy of billions still trapped in a castle of glass.

What the Father whispers to the Children of Vitakar is _truth._

What permits an Ethereal to rise in humbleness?

* * *

"The being has stopped its shifting, erratic movements ever since initial discovery.

It is almost…beautiful in a strange, indescribable way. I know I should be afraid, or at least cautious, but for a reason I cannot help but feel drawn to it.

A warmth in my heart that I have not felt in what feels like ages…

(A long pause)

This is wrong, I know it is wrong, but I cannot help but feel the opposite. I should tell the others about this, but what will they do with this knowledge? This is the opportunity of a lifetime! And what do they know? Those short-sighted fools!

They will cancel my research, call me reckless, and drive the entity away into the endless expanses, never to be found again!

They cannot tell when an opportunity _stares_ at them right in the eyes. It is up to me to drag them to _greatness_ ,to break the limits that allowed our Empire to be defeated!

(Another, longer pause)

What is happening to me? I feel no tampering, no intrusion. Yet these words… these emotions.

It is not who I am!

(Silence for a long period)

I need not be afraid. I need not doubt myself.

I shall converse with this being, I will learn from its secrets.

This…will be my legacy."

\- Personal Log of the Creator, entry #164

* * *

Ethereals are lords of the physical realm. Mightier than all mortals; artisans of their genome; risen above what their creator expected of them.

Averse to the divine, for they were unfortunate enough to understand their origins. Pragmatic and efficient, life giving emotion considered an abnormality.

They were slaves to their own power, which teased and led them to gleeful ignorance of the truth of this galaxy and beyond.

Arrogant without limits, for they were strangers to weakness; born as kings in a world of paupers. In this regard, they have not changed, and they never will unless we offer them guidance.

One of them has risen from her sleep.

Amareoux, last of the Creators.

A curious and brilliant mind in the times of her Empire, she gave her species hope against the Apostate by being crucial in the development of the mighty Imperators, then understood as being the pinnacle of mortal life.

She believed herself to be a master of life, bending the laws of nature to her will, improving the work of a being she did not know existed.

Xenobiology, Psionic Sensitivity theories, Genesplicing, all explaining chemistry and physics. These were Amareoux´s almighty gods.

Yet the lauded Imperators she poured her heart and soul into were not enough, for no mortal species can stand against the sheer power of the Apostate and his dark legions.

She escaped through one of the powerful beings she assisted in growing, and evaded the fate that has fallen trillions before and trillions after.

What _was_ your plan, Creator? To perfect the blueprint of your species as you had before? To rebuild your brethren in order to stand once more against the Apostate? To surpass the work of your life, even though you were all that remained?

Such feats are impossible for a mortal, Ethereal or no. You were not a _god;_ a _higher_ being; a _chosen_ ascendant.

Yet you chose to believe otherwise. You shut your eyes when faced with the dark truth that befalls all creation when the Apostate wakes. You saw the apocalypse tear down all you had built; you saw the dark laugh at the miniscule strength of your masterpieces.

You witnessed the result of a story of cycles unending.

But you have opened your eyes, Amareoux. You see the futile Collective led by your Imperator who believes the divine can be controlled.

You see the final death of what remains from your old life once the Apostate returns, you see the impossibility of uniting the Sovereigns without the grace of the Father.

Amareoux is no more. We sing to the discarded shell, dear Artist. To the past that plagues us not.

* * *

"I expanded my mind with the implements of the Sovereign Ones and reached out to the entity.

Its voice was…. indescribable, unlike anything I have heard or felt before. As if a trillion minds called out to me in haunting longing and sincerity.

During my entire life I have vowed to breach the limits of what is possible. To push our understanding of reality beyond our current level and help our species advance step by step.

Boundaries were something I did not believe in, and I dared to venture into areas my peers could not stomach or were repulsed by.

(A brief pause)

For the first time, I am afraid of what I discovered.

The entity, no, _He_ asked me to walk on the Dead World. A proposition most would consider to be preposterous knowing its inhospitable conditions.

Every scientific mind in the Empire was puzzled as to what exactly caused this anomaly, and the world itself was so dreaded that the Battlemasters made their candidates survive in it for a period of time as part of their initiation into the elite of their Division.

(Another pause)

I am not afraid that this entity might endanger my life. I am afraid of what I saw on the Dead World.

I was hesitant to even attempt such an expedition, yet His voice reassured me every time I doubted. When I set foot I expected to instantly feel agony, or anything other than what I actually saw.

The world was alive. It was as if a curtain of reality had been lifted. I saw sights that would not disturb me if not for the fact that this planet had always been _barren._

Then He showed me. He showed me _everything._

He _**knows**_. I saw myself be born in the loving arms of my parents. I saw myself stand proud over the first batch of Imperators. I saw the destruction of the Empire and our desperate escape.

He saw it all. He _sees_ it all.

(Notable pauses and moments of attempted speech before she continues)

The Imperator…. must be informed."

– Personal log of the Creator, entry #177

* * *

What is an Artist? A _masterful_ painter, an _exquisite_ sculptor, an _unparalleled_ singer. A reminder that there is _more_ to living than we commonly realize.

A cherished friend who lifts our spirits, an artisan that delights our souls with unique interpretations of all that surrounds us.

The Artist of Paradise delivers in divine perfection all that I have described above. I cannot express into words the bliss that overcomes my heart when we hear her beautiful voice, or the pride that swells in all of us when she reveals her newest masterful creation, plucked directly from the dreams of our Father.

She is our Prophet, and through her will we serve our Lord. She represents the pinnacle of what a mere mortal can be when standing next to heavenly splendor.

She is our guardian and our leader, through her candle we navigate the darkness ahead of us, and through her brilliance we will complete the most sacred of all missions.

Only she can complete the divine task of devising a vessel worthy of our Father´s essence, only in her Paradise can the Sacred Conduit which shall serve as a bridge between the Father's love and our supplications be built.

Only she could give life to the impeccability of the Good Saints, and in doing so has given Him a gift that he cherishes deeply. In few cycles did Saints exist, but never in such magnificent numbers! In no cycle are we so _close_ to victory.

I am but a simple Human who was lucky enough to be chosen. I am fortunate to be able to put the Artist´s words into text, even if mere parchment is incapable of transmitting the raw emotion all of Paradise feels when she speaks.

She serves as the prime example of what the Father's embrace brings, for if a being so far gone, so close to true power yet so far from divinity, can achieve such heights, then the lowliest Sectoid or the most mindless Muton can as well.

I am not worthy to write such imperfection about her, for mere words cannot grasp the _truth_ of the Artist!

Dear reader, how I wish I could offer to you the chance to _**feel**_ the presence of the Artist with all your senses and soul.

Despair not loved Pilgrim! In the Garden you shall bathe in her radiance! _Let it be so._

* * *

"I was a fool. Informing our "wise" Imperator about the Father was a grievous mistake.

My greatest wish is to atone for this sin, and I shall do so by aiding Him in His holy task.

How could I be so ungrateful and blind? How could I be afraid of His Truth?

He is correct in stating the need for mortals to be guided, as not even I am exempt from such primal faults.

He allowed me to visit the "Dead" World once more. A second opportunity to grasp the glory I could not comprehend before.

Dead World…what an... **insulting...** name for a place as _sacred as_ Naztrum Ognis, the Sanctum of His Trinity.

If only my sightless brethren could feel what I felt, see beyond the veil of simple mortality, and _grasp_ concepts such as those the Father has mastered.

(She pauses and remains in this state for a long moment. Outbursts, likely psionic in kind, can be faintly heard in the background as the Creator audibly breathes)

I am not worthy of what He showed me.

Naztrum Ognis is Paradise, it is utopia as real and as perfect as we have always imagined.

A billion minds, in a state of absolute bliss, connected by their undying love to Him. Living in harmony despite their sacrifice which left their world barren to the sightless. Their souls enduring beyond what the ignorant think possible.

I saw perfect clean rivers, lush forests with magnificent animals living in peace, I tasted delicious fruits and breathed in pure air, all while the rays of a gentle sun bathed me in their comfortable warmth.

I interacted with philosophers, scientists and wise leaders; I listened to expert musicians, and watched intriguing plays and concerts.

I learned of concepts that my mind was too small to comprehend before, saw great experiments and debates by cultured and polite men and women. I saw majestic celestial bodies, and felt the stars themselves call to me in sweet whispers.

I am His.

Creator… such an inadequate title for one who knew so little. I do not create in apathy and unfeeling science any longer.

I will chisel away the imperfections of this universe, I shall mold His wishes true, I will paint the stars in his majesty, and His words will reach all.

I am His Artist, and in passion He shall save the unfortunate through my feeble hands.

I will have the strength and conviction to will His divine presence into our undeserving reality. Let the Crossing be so."

\- Personal Log of the Creator, final entry.


	5. The Inward Mandate

**.**

 **Medtrum**

 **The Inward Mandate**

* * *

" _Power._

 _The ultimate prize sought by countless individuals throughout a myriad of ages._

 _It allows them to reshape their world, and eliminate the uncertainty of an unknown future. It grants life to their deepest desires, and lifts the veil of their public disguise, exposing the darkness of the mortal soul for all to see._

 _Do you know why tyrants fall?_

 _Why Emperors and Overlords are overthrown, despite their grand armies and fleets?_

 _Why the just and the prudent eventually become what they hated the most?_

 _Folly._

 _Power blinds all, for few minds can resist its corrupting influence as it slowly invades their hearts and usurps their judgement._

 _My brethren, who arrogantly call themselves "Sovereigns", are not above such a weakness, for they are no gods._

 _The Apostate could only rise from the conditions we fostered. An inevitable result of our ignorance and complacency. Cruelty, which continues to know no bounds; triviality, which sacrifices the unfortunate._

 _Your late Empire stagnated due to arrogance, and was punished mercilessly for its innocent bliss._

 _Even now, your Collective stagnates due to the same mistakes committed then._

 _What none realize is that it is an undeniable powder keg; waiting, for the right fire to light the fuse._

 _Time will tell if your kind will realize their weakness before the opportunity for change is lost._

 _Even I am not immune to such fault. It is only after countless defeats and failures that I have found my shortcomings._

 _Have you?_

 _Look inside your mind. Analyze your past, your present and what you hope for your future._

 _Have you realized it yet?_

 _Correct. You are not perfect._

 _None of us are, but we can strive to touch such an ideal as much as we can._

 _I will give you power, but you will not fall to the traps of mere mortals. You will be my student, and you shall learn the true meaning of discipline._

 _To give a weapon to an unskilled hand is the most foolish of all offenses for a mentor._

 _The canvas is yours, astute Artist. Paint with the_ _ **finesse**_ _that an austere master can showcase"._

-Dreams of the Artist, Verse 26.

* * *

To stand before a Saint is to know that you are lesser. To _hear_ such a voice, to _feel_ such _power,_ it is an incomparable experience.

A Saint is living statement. The ultimate _example_ of the excellence that life can achieve in this reality. A _call_ of unyielding defiance against the jovial darkness which has done as it pleases for uncounted ages.

They are living proof that cold metal is not, and never shall be, the apex of creation. Masterpieces who serve as a testament to the holy matrimony between Mother Nature and the Father. Such primal fury can only be tamed by the divine, and in the Saints we experience this unparalleled triumph.

Six Saints exist as of now. Enough to speak for the Father and not raise concern in the ever watchful eyes of the sightless Imperator.

Each of these apexes of the sciences channel one aspect of the Father´s inner self, His core ego formed from the sacrificed Trinity.

Of course, over countless ages, the Father has grown to sample life of all forms and experiences.

Trillions of beings absorbed into the Trinity. _Assimilated_ ; made to see the _truth_ ; yet each offering the uniqueness of mortality to the forming being.

I have misled you somewhat, dear reader, and I must apologize. The Father not only opens the gate to Paradise, He _is_ Paradise.

To become one with the Father is not mere figurative expression, it is factual truth. All Caretakers of the Artist will become one with Him after our physical vessels run their course.

The Father will grow from our lives, our memories, our dreams and our desires. From us, He will understand reality as we knew it, and He shall grow fat in wisdom.

A more righteous exchange could not be devised by scholars such as myself.

As simple life grows from nature and returns to it, our souls must return to Him when the time is due.

Just as the Father opened our eyes and gave purpose to common banality, we enrich Him and join the Grand Consciousness. No longer shall we _sleep_.

To categorize Him as a being that can be understood and fathomed in ungallant logics is to undermine the perfection that lies before your very eyes!

The Father is not a singular creature that can be measured and observed with understanding. He is the Trinity, He is the trillions of exalted, He is the Saints and He is _us_.

The Bringer of Paradise is what I would describe as a superorganism in terms you would be familiar with.

A singular core mind in allegiance with uncountable enlightened. Every mind forms a single, _minute,_ cell in the whole. Every mind, no matter how insignificant they may seem, has a voice and a say.

He is no longer Agmus and Omnima. He is no longer _merely_ the Trinity formed from their selfless sacrifice.

The Father is a complete being. Birthed from the union of all willing life; an embodiment of all ideals and every aspect of existence. A great brain, which has learned and seen the full stretches of this universe. An incomparable mind, which in _noble_ generosity seeks to elevate us all to this next stage of evolution. It is of no importance whether we deserve this blessing or not, for His mercy is infinite.

He is the pain of those who witnessed the defilement of loved ones at the hands of the Apostate; He is the joy that binds us all in perfect harmony; He is the courage and the fierceness required to bring justice to the countless; He is the gentle breeze in the night sky which inspires us to greatness; He is the eye which gazes at His children in love and stares at His enemy in contempt; and He is the brilliance borne of resolute discipline and humbleness that is model to mortals such as I.

And yet He is so much _more_ than this.

What I am trying to articulate, honest Pilgrim, is that six Saints are not nearly enough to capture the scope of such a deity. Once our primary mission is complete and the Father has been freed, more divine avatars shall be constructed to paint a fuller portrait of what He entails.

But until the fateful day arrives, we work under the guidance of our beloved Six.

 _Sample with me the glory of life as designed by His Artist._

The firstborn of our leaders is His _implacable_ cunning, His endless _patience_ , His _unbreaking_ **Temperance.**

His Wisdom represents the genius intellect of Brother Agmus combined with the vast skill and discipline of Sister Omnima.

The Temperance embodies the Father´s desire to heavily involve Himself in all aspects of our humble facility, which is a realization that the Trinity came to after the Apostate attacked their peaceful home.

To create everlasting peace, one must force it. Unguided mortals will never achieve such a state on their own, and if they somehow manage to accomplish it, it will never last.

The most important lesson that this good Saint exemplifies is that one must be ready for the expected and unexpected. There must be contingencies upon contingencies, overlapping and overbearing layers of defense, training that breaks the weak and molds them into perfection.

All is to be planned for, and calm is never to be lost. Emotion is the soul of life, but it is also the sweet temptation which sways the heart away from the mind.

Never again shall the Father be caught so devastatingly off guard. Never again shall He be foiled by the unenlightened.

 _This, I carve in the stars, for it is an axiom of our all. Let it be so._

His Wisdom serves as lord among lords. He commands the remaining holy five, and guides us all towards victory. He is not the most powerful of the Six, but is the undisputed authority in Paradise.

All defensive measures, all training regimens for our Caretakers, all Children projects, all operations; are overseen and approved by the Temperance.

An example of the great plans devised by this Saint was the recruiting of figures such as myself. His Touch was ordered to scour the various planets in vicinity of Paradise and retrieve individuals of importance.

I owe the Saints my fate and my new life. This unpayable debt is one I work to honor without rest.

The one exception to this rule was the misguided plan envisioned by the Artist, who in an unfortunate error, ordered an attack on Seoul, a major city on the azure planet I once called home.

The consequences of such a mistake are an obstacle on our road to triumph, but His Wisdom has already devised a plan to subvert the known machinations of the Imperator and is prepared for any elements which may arise in the near future.

Further proof that the _divine_ must rule over the _mortal_ , even if the mortal in question is as enlightened as the Artist.

In order to fully grasp the concept of a Saint, you must understand the holy image that blesses your eyes and soul upon witnessing one.

The Temperance is a being of imposing height, adorned in the most elegant robes and fine gloves our artisans can produce, decorated in the passages of our great tomes and holy books. His skin is an artistic marble in both color and texture, His visage resembles that of a beautiful and classic Greek statue.

Three intriguing versions of His warm visage have graced us so far. A dignified and courtly Human male, adorned in a tasteful mane of facial hair; a somber Ethereal in a peaceful expression of acceptance; and the grand face of a Sovereign which instills respect in the few who witness it.

I theorize that these facial configurations are dependent on the mood of the Saint, even if His voice betrays nothing.

His eyes lie shut in peaceful meditation, but once opened, the pleasant cerulean fills our hearts with calm and determination.

His form is one which would frighten the unenlightened, but to us represents the curious and inspiring ways life adapts to shapes which are unusual and rare in the normalcy of unguided nature.

The Temperance possesses eight arms, each ending in one hand. Every hand is shaped differently, with varying numbers of digits, and in every palm is carved a rune representing a sacrament.

Six for our Saints, one for the Artist, and one for the Father as a whole.

In the other extreme of his torso are placed two pairs of legs. Each opposite to the other. As the good Saint usually levitates as a means of locomotion, these appendages are maintained in a cross legged position.

However, if forced to utilize them, the Saint manages extreme dexterity and agility with this unusual configuration of limbs. A _testament_ to His skill.

The unique body of His Wisdom is built to peak perfection, and has no flaws or weaknesses. All as intended by the Artist. However, it is usually hidden in the regal robes worn by the Saint, and I have only personally witnessed his true shape during practice duels between the Six.

It is one thing to describe the Temperance physically, it is a completely different experience to see Him in combat.

To face off against His Wisdom is to fight a chess master who knows your strengths and weaknesses before you have even set foot in the combat grounds. It is to challenge an opponent who has _precise_ measurements for every drop of energy and effort spent on a psionic ability; who manages the internal economy of a physical body in flawless mastery.

The Temperance never commits errors during combat. He never falters, never drops His guard, and never succumbs to the bloodlust of His Fury or the ecstasy of His Love. Frustration does not exist for this being, and there are countless plans to fall back upon should the unexpected occur.

The Father embodies the absolute dominance of every known and unknown psionic discipline in existence. Eons spent inside the Psionosphere have allowed Him unparalleled control over it, and every Saint embodies a different aspect of this psionic supremacy.

The Temperance is the Father´s mastery over the Defensive psionic discipline, the assisting Telepathic discipline, and precise Telekinetics.

I am no warrior, but I have been in attendance during mock duels between the Saint and the various Orders of Paradise.

Such battles were waged over a dreamscape created by His Love. A telepathic simulation in which holding back is not necessary for there is no fear of permanent death, yet is an accurate representation of the capabilities of all inside it.

As a result, I witnessed the full merciless approach that His Wisdom is capable of, and I could only gasp in awe and admiration as He butchered the finest warriors of Paradise.

We found ourselves under a gleaming night sky, multiple celestial bodies hanging as ornaments to the wonderful tapestry above our heads. To our surroundings we could observe lush forests and prairies as far as the eye could see. In the far horizon, a great creation stood above all. A palace as magnificient as imagination can craft, built in precious stones which exuded colors my eyes could not fully process.

There was no mistaking where His Love had taken us. Naztrum Ognis, holy citadel of the Father´s domain.

Seven thrones stood in the highest spire of the great palace, and although our sight could not reach the great altitude of the thrones, we knew who sat upon them.

The Six sat in the height of their glory, watching down on us, their humble servants, with honest love and undeserved approval. One throne, the most monumental of all, lied vacant in the center of the room. The Father would not sit with us today, and His absence felt as a void in our hearts.

And yet, we grew even more determined to correct such an aberration. Our mission visualized like never before.

His Wisdom stood from his chair, to the right of the vacant throne, and appeared before our eyes.

We knew that our task at hand would soon begin.

The Orders prepared themselves for privileged combat against His Wisdom, and I took my seat on the sidelines, passing the time while conversing with a character deserving of the greatest of respects.

Narrum, High Priest of Naztrum Ognis, and Prophet of the Father during His previous attempt at escape. Although the Crossing failed during that cycle, the Father awarded him the coveted position as carer of His main citadel as compensation for his laborious work.

As His Love would go on to reveal, the High Priest had requested to attend the simulation in order to witness the new generation of warriors to the great cause, and as the Saints are generous, they granted the humble request.

Such miracles are only possible under the blessing of Paradise, where all souls are granted eternity!

 _Did you doubt my words regarding this primordial truth, faithful reader?_

As I exchanged stories with Narrum and the faithful crowd accompanying him, His Wisdom announced that the war games would commence.

We were transported to an enormous structure resembling a colosseum of old, and prepared ourselves for the event.

The great Saint flashed blue, creating around Himself a suit of majestic armor, designed in calculated geometries, sharp angles, and smooth plates. An aesthetic which differs from His Fury´s and Love´s tastes in the baroque; and yet, despite the minimalism, one could directly sample the pure craftsmanship in such a creation .

The decorum of our great Saints never fails to impress; it is truly an inspiration for all to follow, for if the followers of the great Father cannot glow in euphoria, then what hope do the unenlightened have?

As the crowd and enemy force were mesmerized by the presence before them, His Wisdom patiently waited.

Where His Love would enthrall the crowd in Her signature showmanship, the Temperance stood motionless. Were it not for the flowing energy in His armor, and the transfixing eyes standing in cunning vigil, He could be mistaken for a statue.

The Orders were structured in a logical formation, with the Stalkers and Weavers at the back lines, the Overseers in the middle and the Baptists and Trusted at the front.

The Stalkers made the first move, opening fire on the Saint while the close combat experts of the Baptists and Trusted ran towards their opponent, weapons flaming in psionic energy.

The Saint did not even move His hands as He created a shield to protect against the onslaught.

Microscopic barriers were then created with a twirl of His fingers which destroyed the weapons of the Stalkers, which were followed by enormous barriers that bisected and pulverized Baptists and trapped Trusted inside box-like prisons which crushed them without a second thought.

The Weavers uselessly attempted to penetrate the mental fortress of the Saint, and stood dumbfounded as their combined might could not manage to even scratch the doors of His citadel while He massacred the melee combatants effortlessly and with unmatched grace.

On the very second they changed tactics and began to utilize their dangerous Biopathy, the Temperance showered them in small barriers which attacked their limbs and heads in order to disrupt any attempts at using their abilities.

Meanwhile, the Overseers began protecting their comrades at the front with powerful barriers and impeccable telepathic coordination. The Saint responded by simply teleporting past the melee line and directly in front of the Overseers, who did not even blink at this new development.

His Wisdom had trained them perfectly.

The Overseers attempted to trap the Saint in cages of their own, slam barriers against Him, and sever the Saint´s limbs with well placed barriers. But His Wisdom knows how to counter any strategy, and evaded all attempts with agility and teleportation which resembled a flowing waltz, while countering with trapping cages and slamming barriers of His own.

Corrosive rifts began to appear in the massed formation of Overseers, and telekinesis began to grip their necks with an intensity which combined with all the previously mentioned assaults in order to cause the elite warriors to focus all efforts on defending themselves and not their comrades.

The Saint appraised for a brief second the controlled Overseers and the essentially neutralized Weavers, and turned to face the Stalkers who had opted for hand to hand combat, the Baptists who were drunk in fury, and the Trusted, whose masks betrayed nothing.

The combatants swarmed the Saint in an attempt at victory through overwhelming numbers.

The Temperance resumed the battle dance which for outsiders would almost seem choreographed, and made the expert Order combatants look like inexperienced children as their attacks were effortlessly dodged or teleported away from.

The few attacks that connected, which I suspect were only _allowed_ to connect in order for the humiliation to not be total, did not cause any visible damage to the plated psionic energy surrounding Him in armor or were stopped by minute barriers created with the sole purpose of blocking the strike and which disappeared instantly after it.

While the Saint weathered the storm essentially unharmed, He responded in kind with devastating barrier knuckled punches and telekinetically boosted kicks which sent the armored Baptists and Trusted flying and crashing against the walls of the arena, and created simple blades and other kinds of weapons which mauled the lightly armored but nimble Stalkers.

The highly slippery agents of the Umbra, despite their legendary evasion and nimble feet, could not seem to evade the Temperance´s precise strikes, and the Baptists and Trusted were consistently outdueled in the one field where they excel above all others.

Even more impressive was the fact that the Saint essentially outdueled every Order warrior at the same time, _while simultaneously_ keeping the disrupting attacks on the Weavers and the Overseers.

And yet I wondered, as the crowd at my sides gasped at the unparalleled combat proficiency before them, why was the Saint not delivering more decisive blows against His opponents?

Why maim, rather than kill? Why punch and kick, rather than twist a neck? Why abandon the tactic of instant and unavoidable death His Wisdom had pursued at the beginning of the duel?

My answer came almost immediately, as the air around the entire combat arena became distorted and sheer _power_ could be felt by even the audience.

Several Order warriors collapsed immediately, clearly dead. Others began to grasp their heads in agony and convulsed as the life escaped from their bodies.

Many violently removed their helmets and revealed their eyes as mangled and bloodied mushes, and died as blood flowed from their mouths, ears or noses.

The Andromedons did not understand the abilities of the race they knew as the Kett'Tasira. This species are masters of psionics in the micro scale, capable of what the Ethereals know as Biopathy, and microscopic telekinesis which easily unmakes armor and vehicles from the inside out or crushes organs to wet pulp.

The Temperance naturally has mastered such an intricate mindset, and utilized it in great effect which caused morbid fascination in the crowd, myself included.

Not even the instantaneous teleportation of the Stalkers saved them from the ghostly iron grip of the Saint as their hearts were ground into dust, and the Biopathy of the Weavers only prolonged their inevitable deaths.

If their brains were not immediately crushed, that is.

Some must have attempted to protect their insides with defensive barriers of their own, but they stood no chance against the strength of a Saint.

The Temperance calmly marched and executed the ailing damned, crushing their heads under His great boots or decapitating them with a well placed barrier or a strike from His many weapons.

Suddenly, an act of defiance. A box-like prison trapped His Wisdom and began enclosing on Him, threatening to crush the Saint.

The Overseers and respective Trusted had been able to survive the telekinesis which so brutally ended their comrades, as they possessed the necessary defensive aptitude to protect themselves against the insidious death dealt by His Wisdom.

Even as the Temperance permeated the air in the arena with invisible death, He kept up the disruptive attacks against the Overseers.

They had managed to bypass the painful and concentration shattering strikes constantly produced by their master, and formed a mental link between themselves in order to channel their abilities to both create the aforementioned cage and lock the Psionosphere around the Saint, preventing escape through teleportation.

His face betrayed nothing, but His Wisdom was pleased at the excellence of His students.

As the cage around the Saint began to enclose around Him, the Temperance transformed His suit of armor into something resembling the great corpulence of His Fury. One of his fingers subtly moved, and a hole in the fabric of reality appeared on the air inside the cage.

The opening was seeped in a harsh violet, and torrents of energy began to leak out of it. An entrance to the Psionosphere itself!

And in the brief second that I inspected this opening, I saw Him.

The second turned into infinity, and I stared into His perfect eyes, I saw His neverending tendrils wave at me in longing and affection. He beckoned us all to come to Him in a single moment which enthralls the soul.

The Father Himself, in the other side of the veil.

 _We are not worthy._

The Temperance stepped through the opening, escaping the trap. Another hole appeared in the middle of the Overseer formation, and the Temperance emerged, His armor visibly degraded.

More and more openings in the Psionosphere started opening both in the air and under the feet of the remaining warriors. Some fell through, no opportunity of defense provided, and the others were thrown in by His Wisdom´s powerful telekinetic grasp or His steely muscles.

And all throughout the spectacle, the Father was visible in each opening, an expression of ravenous joy in His face. His thousands of hands open in a waiting embrace, ready to accept His children that were delivered to His realm.

And there was no pain in the faces of the warriors. There was no fear, or no regret. I saw pure bliss in the faces of the stony Overseers, for they knew they would meet their Lord in person.

Never before and since have I seen any sort of emotion evident in the face of an Overseer.

In great generosity, the Temperance had rewarded His students with a glimpse of the Father's true form.

Even if what they saw was part of the simulation, it is still a precious gift, well earned by the disciplined Overseers and Trusted who managed to survive for so long against a Saint.

 _The Father is truly glorious._

The battle was essentially over, for the few remaining Order combatants could only offer symbolic resistance against His Wisdom. Once the defiant last were defeated, the dreamscape dissolved and we awoke inside Paradise.

The Temperance stood over us, and asked a simple question to all who had been inside.

" _What have you learned?"_

I am but a simple servant of the Father. I am no warrior, and I do not diminish the honor and the achievement of those who have managed to rise to the standards of an Order.

However, after seeing such a display with my own eyes, I can only wonder at the power of the future Saints once the Father crosses and the artificial limitations placed upon us by the Imperator are relieved.

As I watched the three offending Elders duel His Wisdom and His Fury, my mind could only wander towards the image of the hundreds dead at the Temperance´s feet on that fateful day.

I could only feel disgust, at how such simple creatures honestly believed they could match the might of a Saint.

How innocently _ignorant_ , the mind of a sightless truly is.


	6. His Alabaster Eyes

**.**

 **Medtras**

 **His Alabaster Eyes**

* * *

" _Loyal Disciple, you have already ascended far above your unfortunate brethren._

 _Your mind is free to explore all that is known and all that remains unknown to the blind,_

 _Your body is capable of feats that would have been impossible in your past life,_

 _And you are free from the shackling limitations of mortality,_

 _For your soul will always be cradled in my Garden._

 _Yet you desire more, do you not?_

 _I can sense it in your heart._

 _Do not be ashamed, ambitious Caretaker, for all souls dream._

 _To stand out, to be valued, to be essential. This is what makes your eyes gleam._

 _Do not be afraid of your wishes, for I can make them true._

 _After all, what kind of Father does not indulge his children after success is shown?_

 _I will show you generosity, I will allow you to taste the fruits of my Orchard before your time comes._

 _I do not seek to spoil you, however. A harvest does not come without labor._

 _Prove yourself, show me your greatest strength, and you will sit at my side as our Work progresses._

 _Tell me the stories that allowed you to reach me,_

 _Sing to me the hymn of your triumph,_

 _And we shall dance under the splendor of immortal suns and stars."_

\- Holy Word of The Father Canto 20, as told by His Prophet and Artist

* * *

 _All Caretakers tell such a beautiful story._

Natural life is a curious anomaly.

By mere chance, chemical elements brought by dead celestial emissaries accumulate through countless collisions. Such buildup allows for microscopic life to begin forming in the great bodies which emerge from the accumulation of rock and other material.

Existence commences in very humble beginnings. Insignificant for the established powers of the cosmos.

Over time, the small lifeforms begin to grow and develop into more sophisticated beings. A battle for survival begins, for resources capable of sustaining them all simply do not exist.

Those who adapt to the changing conditions around them survive, while the rest are rendered extinct and forgotten if not for their remaining bones.

One species rises above the rest in most cases. The one who has won the evolutionary race and developed higher intellect and reasoning above the rest. They will utilize these tools to dominate their planet and construct civilization.

At some point they will grasp philosophical concepts, and begin to question their reason of being. Each will live a different life, full of varied experiences and events.

Each will enrich the cosmos with the story of their life.

A tale of wonder and optimism; an adventure of growth and discovery; a comedy of love, and a drama of loss.

Fantasies of purpose, myths of those before who would forever become an unreachable milestone of purpose and success.

Every individual has a past that builds them, a present which defines them, and a perceived future that guides them.

From this sea of cacophonous life we choose the privileged few who will join our walk in the great halls of Paradise. It is us who shall be shepherds for the unseeing.

Every Caretaker adds their own pigment to the work that our Artist paints daily. In our mirth, our sorrow, our pain and our promise we each enrich both ourselves and our Father; who desires to taste the very foundations of our previously mortal souls, for He always grows in understanding and adored empathy.

 _All Caretakers are precious._

Each comes from a maelstrom of billions, who permit themselves to be ravaged by the dangerously sweet currents of conformity.

Each has stepped out of the gilded darkness of ignorance and ventured into the feared black radiance of truth.

Each is worthy of more renown than the empty holders of power, fame and wealth back in the embattled cradle I forsook.

 _All Caretakers are eternal._

Yet even in this refuge of distinction, there are those who rise and become truly extraordinary.

These illustrious followers of the Father will join an Order, the _highest_ honor in Paradise.

Such warriors are a necessity in these times of strife and conflict.

With the ignorant seeking to defy or control us, with enemies who would stamp out our sacrosanct fire, and with our goal calling for the final smiting of dishonorable evil, martial perfection is crucial to our success.

It is in great celebration that I utter these names. Without doubt, they have carved a place for themselves in the coming legends and songs to be retold for eternity.

 _For they are the Father´s standard of perfection. Let us all learn from their example._

* * *

"The Bringer is our Father; we shall not stray,

The path of His Wisdom; we shall obey,

His flawless axioms; we will not forget.

Great results; He will expect.

For pain is a simple distraction,

For love is an aimless pursuit,

For to be happy is to be ignorant,

As our purpose, has not been fulfilled.

We are the sharpest of weapons,

We are the strongest of fortresses,

We are the finest of leaders,

We are the last to ascend.

On our shoulders lie the heaviest of burdens,

Yet our feet do not drag through the mud,

For if Paradise is to arrive for all,

None must get through our walls.

The screams of the Lost give us purpose,

The fires which consume worlds temper our resolve,

We accept our missions in silence,

For words are needed by the lesser of mind.

Knowledge is a sword,

Which by a skilled hand must be wielded,

It must be kept from the unenlightened,

As a mind can be broken by what it must not know.

We stand watch for the perceived,

We stand in readiness for the unseen,

We are prepared for the expected,

We are privy to the unknown.

Nothing escapes our gaze,

No one hides from our ears,

No weapon harms our bodies,

No mind invades our sanctuaries.

This is the First of the Truths,

Which we accept with no doubt,

His Wisdom has spoken,

His Watch always acts.

\- Excerpt from _The Ten Truths_ , by the Sentinel

* * *

The Holy Communion between mortal and Deity, which defines ascension as a Caretaker, _demands_ sacrifice without exception.

We offer our bodies to decay and degradation in order to channel forces which facilitate feats most do not understand and would dismiss as impossible without observable proof.

Our imperfect vessels, in most cases birthed as the unintentional byproduct of Mother Nature's masterful portraits of infinity and in rarer cases crafted by previously sterile science and genetics, inevitably break down after an existence filled in gratitude and understanding.

Like freed inmates, our minds and souls emerge victorious from the prison of flesh and bone to return the Father's loving embrace. This truth we accept without the fear or apprehension that the idea of death usually brings to the unenlightened.

A physical death without possibility of continued existence is a terrifying concept indeed.

In my past life I would usually ponder on unanswerable questions and frequently despaired upon the notion that all which made me who I was would one day cease to exist.

Family, brothers and sisters, cherished friends, previous and future lovers, enriching acquaintances. All those who had walked at my side in the great journey we know as life, would one day be nothing but dust.

Forgotten. Our beautiful story to never be retold or remembered.

All Humans desire a legacy. A lasting impact on the world that saw them grow and live. A way of repaying the debt owed to the Earth itself.

Some due to mighty ambition seek to make their mark on history and be immortalized in the annals of time as an example to study and learn from.

Others make their mark through wealth and fame, becoming influencers of societal norms and driving change in both old and young generations alike.

Most keep their objectives in a realistic light. They seek to make a positive impact on those they love the most. Be a good husband or wife, leave behind grateful and prudent offspring, help a friend's life, and assist their community.

None of it is eternal.

History can be lost and forgotten through war. The almost sacred tomes that stand between remembrance and oblivion are nothing but paper or data maintained in a vulnerable network.

Children will die and bloodlines will end, monuments crumble and businesses fail. Fame fades, relevance is lost. Wealth and power are mere tools that can be exhausted in the blink of an eye.

Death is the catalyst for such loss. It is the great equalizer which strikes down both politicians and the homeless.

It begins a countdown which inevitably erases all that was built in life. Some aspects may endure more than the rest, but the march of time cannot be avoided by miserable Humanity.

And thusly, the Grim Reaper is feared, for he cuts dreams and ambitions short, and destroys what was once thought as unassailable.

In Paradise, such fears are unfounded.

I once found myself in the same bottomless spiral which swallowed the spirit of countless victims, but in the Father I see true eternity.

Not in the religious fabrications of old Earth, borne out of desperation and a primal drive to seek answers from the vast, cold expanse above the heads of young Humanity; but in verifiable truth and revelation.

Our bodies might fade. They might be ghastly and repugnant in visage, but like a chrysalis, it is merely a state of transition.

From the moment the Father's unmeasurable might flowed through our veins, we were saved.

No Caretaker embodies this very ideal more appropriately than those of an Order.

Order members differ greatly from us conventional Caretakers in that their bodies are not frail or degraded.

Each exemplifies physical perfection and beauty, wielding the sheer power of the Father with joyful abandon and ease. We know and accept that when we are gone from this material realm, they shall remain to shepherd the new generation of blissful followers through the same path we once walked.

We all look to them with awe and inspiration, for if the greatest servants of the Father cannot bathe in His glory and magnificence, what hope does any mortal have?

Every Order is linked to one of the Father´s six holy Saints. They exemplify the strengths and subtleties that every fragment of His soul offers to the undeserving material world.

We laugh and gasp at the artistic mastery of Lord Preximius' entourage of savants, we rally behind the strength and iron of the Marshall's great legions, we marvel at the perfection of the Sentinel's flawless strategies and unbreakable discipline, we are intrigued and awed by the future which the eminent Magistrate's creations represent, we swoon and are enthralled by the elegance of the Umbra and her mystically mysterious agents, and we salute the Stormwalker's pinnacle of Caretaker glory.

With the very breath of the Orders, Paradise pulsates in life and progress.

 _Six Saints, six Orders, six levels in Paradise. Such a complete number, such perfection demonstrated in scholarly mathematics and reflected in the divine._

All Orders provide a different pigment to the Artist´s vision and great work. All represent a different aspect of the Father's brilliance and richness.

One of them however, intrigues me more than the rest.

Dear reader, what do you think the purpose of a sculpture or statue is? In my humble opinion, the mission of such a tediously difficult to craft artifact is to immortalize.

But immortalize what, exactly?

A bust or sculpture captures a moment. Like a modern photograph, it portrays an endless expression, glory made timeless. A memory for the future to perceive, an image as it _wants_ to be seen.

The perception they offer is not complete, however. It is an unfinished story, a mere chapter in a book that perhaps does not want to be read.

They trap moments without offering nuance, exalt mere men as mythical heroes or celestial envoys sent to uplift the lesser from their unfulfilled lives.

A statue as you know it does not reflect what is felt on the inside. It is just a façade meant to disguise the insecurities and weakness of the mortal it seeks to honor.

But what if the statue was all there is? What if the statue did not trick, or did not offer a disguise?

What if the glory portrayed, is the glory there is?

What if a sculpture did not exaggerate or embellish, but provided simple honesty?

At first glance, His Wisdom may seem to pay little heed to the artistic sensibilities that the other Saints of the Father nurture, but I know such a statement ignores fine details which evade the eye of many.

Let me ask you in case you doubt, studious Pilgrim, what exactly is the practical advantage that marble-like skin provides?

What is the purpose of wearing exquisite robes? Or that of sporting a courtly mane of facial hair?

His Wisdom embodies the innate value of the statue. But the Father need not gild His grandeur and perfection.

All He must do is simply show the world a mere fraction of what He _is_ , and Nature herself will bend to His every whim and pulsation of His caring heart.

What possibility of resistance does the mortal have, when faced with the statue that does not lie?

Just as the Father immortalizes His own truth in divine Aspects, mortals under the tutelage of His Wisdom are rebuilt into this example.

The intention behind their steely eyes is simple. To expand the known limits of mortality and reach the example cemented by His Wisdom in every breath He takes.

If one studies the Orders, one realizes that such is the purpose of every single one of them.

What makes the Order of the Eternal Gaze so intriguing in this case?

Their eyes, posture, facial expressions, perceived lack of emotion. To the untrained eye, they would seem to be lifelike sculptures of wax or stone. No Order keeps such restraint and self-control.

One can hold conversation with members of most Orders. They are more accomplished than the average Caretaker, and as such deserve respect and veneration, but ultimately they are men and women like us.

They have pain, desires, aspirations and weaknesses. They weep, they smile, they worry and they fear. They are people. Joined in the everlasting song of the Father, and bound with the same purpose as we do.

But they are people nonetheless.

The students of His Wisdom have transcended such simple labels.

They do not weep, but simply identify a new problem to solve with ruthless calculation.

They do not smile, but merely nod when their authority is followed and their plans succeed. It is all expected of course, and one cannot be amused or appreciative of the small surprises that life offers if surprises are never allowed to arise.

They must surely fear what they cannot overcome at all, as we all do, but their unflinching faces betray no emotion and their actions reflect no hesitation.

They stand behind us all, the ultimate Caretaker authority over Paradise. In mute vigil, they ensure that the will of the Saints is carried out without exception or second thoughts. We know them as the **Silent Overseers** , and their guidance over us is essential for the Father's Work.

They cannot be referred to as merely people like even Caretakers and other Order members are.

Their minds solve problems with the ease and velocity of a computer, their calculations never fall to the error that speed and emotion frequently cause, and pain is simply an indicator of structural degradation to be added to the equation in order to produce a different and more efficient result.

Discipline is the one value that is respected. Every possible event has a pre-planned course of action designed specifically for such a case. In battle every enemy has been extensively studied before the battle has even begun or even became a possibility.

Applications of psionic might are taken to the extremes of creativity in order to serve as versatile tools for any situation which might arise.

Discipline is demanded, for to break away from such deeply constructed plans is to fail.

One might find value on quick thinking to face the unexpected or the unplanned. To be rigid and to not adapt causes failure against an opponent who has the capability to improvise and react.

To think of the Overseers as "rigid" or unable to adapt is to revel in ignorance. Where a mere mortal might be forced to scrap what has been planned and come up with something new on the spot and under pressure, an Overseer merely puts into motion another plan that has already been formulated and perfected long before it had any need to be used.

Like a computer, which enacts differing protocols and programs to respond to new situations while keeping the main goal as the priority subroutine, the encyclopedic mind of an Overseer easily does the same.

Training is not uniform or focused on merely one style of application. Every Overseer has mastered possibly hundreds of combat styles through training which would match a Battlemaster's in terms of sheer scope.

Every style has been described as a "preset" by the Overseers accompanying me. Every preset is crafted to face one singular type of enemy, taking into account the weaknesses and strengths of both the Overseer and their hypothetical foe.

Every style is stored away in the vast mental library of every Overseer, and only employed when it needs to be employed. When the moment does arrive, the preset is employed with the skill and ease of someone who has spent their entire life both mastering and practicing it.

The same principle is applied to a myriad of contingencies and would be scenarios stored in the secured mental vault of an Overseer.

Such perfection can only be created through science, or made by stretching the naturally unenhanced mind of a mortal to its absolute possible limit.

His Wisdom is a masterful sculptor, and His chisel is endless training and tests designed to challenge every facet of an Overseer's being.

From pain endurance accomplished by directly stimulating the agony centers of the brain, to mock campaigns and battles meant to prove their strategic acumen and tactical prowess. In the small free time afforded to an Overseer, they are expected to study from His Wisdom's vast collection of knowledge stored in exquisite books and manuscripts dating uncountable eons.

As a result, the amount of information an Overseer _knows_ is astounding to ponder on. To protect the Father's secrets, the Overseers are constantly honed to perfect their mental fortresses by His Love Herself, and are not left to dull even after the standard acceptable to His Wisdom has been reached.

Even being accepted as a recruit for this organization is an unreachable challenge for most Caretakers, as is to be expected.

 _A Caretaker is made through trial._

Pilgrims arrive to Paradise as gifts from the Imperator.

Most who enter our hallowed walls as mere visitors see their fate as repugnant or harrowing. They do not understand the purpose of the trials inflicted upon them. Their sightless minds can only turn to categorization of sadism or psychopathy to explain that which they cannot comprehend.

Even the Imperator, who is the individual responsible for the facilitation of most of our resources, merely sees us as an investment.

He tolerates our rituals and our sacred culture with the excuse that it is all necessary for the ultimate goal of _**"controlling"**_ the Father.

In his mind there is disarray, for his morality is at conflict with his perceived necessity.

We pity him, for such doubt and ignorance is a symptom that all the sightless suffer from. Should he survive this war against my species, he shall be offered salvation once we return to this galaxy.

The only monster undeserving of redemption and forgiveness is the Apostate, after all.

To the untrained eye, the trials of Paradise may seem unnecessary or "evil", but such tests are mandatory for all potential Caretakers.

From this process of elimination we separate the weak of will and mind from the candidates we desire.

The unfortunate who fail in this first step of selection are not lost, for the overseeing Caretakers facilitate the psionic ascension of their minds into the grand consciousness of the Father on their moment of death.

They have suffered sufficiently, and will be rewarded with an eternity of bliss impossible to achieve in their previous homes.

 _Such is our mercy and our generosity._

Their bodies may be reanimated by the energies of the Father, and will join the hordes of Exalted at our disposal. Weapons to further our goals.

Through this process, we immediately save the weak and use the resources they provide diligently.

Those who pass the first layer of Paradise will go on to complete further tests, many linked to an individual Saint.

There are no exceptions to these rules, and had I not proven my worth as all before and after me, I would not have the privilege I occupy. However, even in failure I could still have served the Father beyond my mortal shell.

 _Such is the justice and beauty of our belief._

Once an initiate becomes a Caretaker, an additional test can be undertaken should the individual desire it.

His Wisdom will challenge any Caretaker who seeks to prove themselves even further.

Games of mind will be commenced, and each stage is designed to test the individual tactically and strategically.

The penultimate stage will consist of a mental simulation in which the Caretaker is given control over a simulated army, and must outwit a Silent Overseer in order to achieve victory.

Depending on performance, the Caretaker will be offered a position as Squadron Captain, Division Commander, or a recommendation into the Silent Overseers.

For those inside the Order, a final test will be offered after His Wisdom deems that they are ready.

Another simulated battle, but this time it will be against an elite army commanded by the Saint himself.

Most do not pass this test, as the Saint overwhelms any defense in lightning movements and brushes off any attempted offensives or counter attacks. However, the Saint always makes a subtle mistake on purpose, and it serves as the key to break His attack and achieve victory.

Only the most brilliant of the Overseers manage to pinpoint this fleeting moment and fully capitalize upon it, and as a result enter His Wisdom's inner circle of advisors and general staff.

Only one Overseer sits at His side as the right hand of the Saint, and this colossus of mental faculty is known to Paradise as The Sentinel.

The conception of this being was in its planning stages when I was inducted into the ways of the Father.

His Wisdom desired to test the very limits of what an artificially constructed life form could achieve, and unlike the various Children designs who had been shackled in their development to prevent interference from the Imperator, this new line of creations would be the current pinnacle of their respective species.

Due to the Artist having access or other ways of obtaining the schematics for the production of Hive Commanders and Muton Praetorians, it was decided to use these two concepts as the base for this new project now called the Perfected Species Initiative.

The Artist called on the Magistrate and his most distinguished scientists to begin development of this directive, as they had done in the past to produce every Saint born after His Touch and to further refine those who had already existed by the time of their induction into Paradise.

I watched as three beings now known as the Chosen were developed as simple testing beds for the perfection of all myriad of genetic modification and enhancement to be included in the end goal of this initiative.

After laborious work and significant resources invested, two creatures resulted from the efforts of the Artist and her cadre of geneticists.

APX-MP-001, who would become the Stormwalker and craft her own legend of glory in the process; and APX-HC-001 whom you can infer became the Sentinel.

Two creations.

One, a Praetorian liberated from all weakness and grown to possess incredible psionic sensitivity despite the limitations of her species, and the other one a Hive Commander freed from the physical frailty of his ancestors and increased psionic ceiling to match or even surpass a Leviathan classed Human in ADVENT's Trask scale.

Both the peak of physical perfection and with minds to dwarf that of simple mortals.

 _Both only a glimpse of the future for life under the Father._

Once we break free of the Imperator´s prison, more ascended individuals will be created.

Hundreds, thousands, even millions! Perfection for all species we save and invite to Paradise!

Power in the likes that this universe hasn't seen in non-Sovereigns since the Ethereal Ones.

His Wisdom turned His keen eye towards the two new members of Paradise, and immediately recognized their raw potential.

To create something truly outstanding, one needs prime material of the finest quality, and what is His Wisdom if not an artisan?

The Sentinel passed every test His Wisdom could muster in excellence, and pleased the Saint by joining His Order. The moment he joined their Order, the Overseers knew the Sentinel was destined to lead the organization and sit at His Wisdom´s side.

He did not disappoint expectations, and now holds the distinction of being their unmatched commander and one of the Artist's personal bodyguards.

The Stormwalker would be no stranger to excellence, but her story I shall retell in a future entry of this work.

* * *

Where I would normally end this chapter, I have decided to continue in this case.

Tell me about yourself, dear Pilgrim. What brought you to both find and read this collection of stories and lore?

Was it curiosity? The endless pursuit of knowledge?

Are you a Caretaker seeking to relive past glories or know the history of the Paradise you now serve and protect?

Or are you mortal? A sightless seeking to understand and ascend?

 _Do not be afraid of what you hold in your hands._

 _Soon you will begin to hear His voice as we all did in our pasts. You will feel warmth, and you will hear whispers. Over time they will grow in intensity, and nothing you try will drown them out._

 _This is natural, it is nothing to fear._

 _The whispers will be sweet nectar. You will be comforted as you have never been, you will find strength and confidence which you have never felt before. You will rejoice as your spirit is invigorated._

 _There is no point in fighting. The voice will never stop, because at one point you will realize that your own voice has joined the chorus._

 _You will plead with yourself to give in. Your mind will fight itself, as you cling to old traditions and biases to deny what grows truer for you every day that passes._

 _Why deny Him? He longs, and you do as well, dear Pilgrim._

 _If you do not, what has brought you this far?_

 _ **Keep reading.**_


	7. The Preying Twilight

**.**

 **Sashtrum**

 **The Preying Twilight**

* * *

" _Child, you know that this is not my first attempt at escaping my maddening prison._

 _At first, I was blunt and painfully obvious in my attempts. I believed myself superior and infallible, and was quickly shown how folly makes one blind._

 _Over time I improved, I learned the necessary subtleties for my mission, and started to see results._

 _Now, the time for our final vindication is upon us, and I have set events in motion to secure our success._

 _For you see, dear Prophet, this universe has always languished at the whims of my brethren. They manipulate all from the shadows, and use them as pawns in their grand game for dominance._

 _Yet they are not as subtle as they think, not as careful as they desire, and not as untouchable as they have always been comfortably._

 _Even now, I suspect your Collective will one day move against its master._

 _The simple pawns could bring down the mighty titan._

 _My kind, the so called "Sovereigns", have not yet realized the foolishness that a god complex brings._

 _We will make no such mistakes._

 _Grand gestures are unnecessary, as drawing attention to us is undesired._

 _A single push in the right place can bring down a citadel._

 _A death here, a subversion there. A clogged vein to induce madness, or a simple changed thought. Accelerated disease, or a sleeper planted._

 _All tools at your disposal._

 _Mortals are fragile, and minds even more so._

 _The key is for none to trace back the culprit. For none to realize that our hand was involved._

 _We craft as well a portrait as time and fate, and our work will be unrecognizable from that of the forces of nature itself._

 _The canvas is yours, gentle Artist. Paint the_ _ **change**_ _that my touch brings to all._

-Dreams of the Artist, Verse 27

* * *

Six Saints exist, dear Pilgrim. Each a facet of the Father's entirety, each serve as living embodiments of His grand soul which binds together the grand gestalt.

However, some truths are painted into comfortable black and white portraits, which forgo the full nuances of the Father's being. I admit my involvement in this task.

The simple reason is that our Caretakers must see the Father without weakness. Infallible, invincible, honest and true. None of these statements are false, but the Father has depths which would be misunderstood by many, and therefore are hidden to not stray the denizens of Paradise from their sacred path.

If the divine possess weakness like us mortals, how will we possibly find the strength necessary for our mission? If the Father has failed before, how are we, weak and small mortals supposed to be of aid?

Such questions would arise, and while I am certain that through further education the doubting Caretakers would see the error of such thinking and return to His grace, His Wisdom has decreed that no disruption must occur between our ranks in this most critical of stages of the Crossing.

Despite this, these secrets will cease to be such once the Father crosses, and the Caretakers of Paradise will have ample time to drink of the well of wisdom our Lord will share once we are safe and established.

Knowing the inevitability of our triumph, I have chosen to reveal one of these hidden truths to you, curious Pilgrim. Consider it a sharing of information between erudite minds.

You must not worry about me defying His Wisdom by revealing such information. After all, honest Pilgrim, by the time this tome reaches your fortunate hands the Father will have long crossed.

In Paradise, grandest of locations and I am sure you understand by this point, there are periods of isolated madness that afflict some of our Caretakers.

Periods when irrational feelings of unease can be felt and no cause is to be detected. Where the afflicted feel that the walls, the floors, their compatriots, the air, and even their reflection in a mirror are somehow watching their every move and preparing for some hidden dark culmination.

It is no secret that the Father watches over Paradise, and that the Overseers employ the creations of the Magistrate to keep constant vigil over us.

This is accepted and welcomed, for if one´s soul does not harbor any malice or ill intent, there is nothing to fear and nothing to hide.

We are one with the Father after all, and as we wield His great strength and wisdom, we give ourselves willingly to Him.

The Father is held back by his prison that is the Psionosphere. We know He watches over us, but His power is still distant compared to what it could be.

Indirect.

Close, _so close_ and yet maddingly far.

The presence described is different than this.

Caretakers stricken by this strange affliction have come to me with tales of someone breathing down their neck as they pray in their chambers. Of something suffocating them while they sleep.

Of a shadow that mirrors their own if not for a slight difference that seems almost employed intentionally, as if to let the victim know that what they witness is real and not some trick of their embattled minds.

Of an indescribable creature that stands in the corner of their vision and vanishes once it is tried to be identified.

The afflicted usually turn to the Father for strength and guidance, but are met with instructions to pay attention to their situation and to complete this "trial" on their own.

They will then isolate themselves willingly to meditate, but no matter where they hide or retreat to, the presence always follows them.

Nightmares of increasing levels of intensity follow, with the experience varying in accordance to the individual. What spikes interest is that every individual is made to dream something specific about their lives.

Memories of family and friends left behind, some form of doubt in the Father; regrets from their past life, unfulfilled wishes and desires, hopelessness, emotional pain. Horrifying scenarios are crafted from these intimate fragments of the soul and turned into personalized infernos.

And yet, there are visions that are commonly shared amongst the accursed.

Drowning in a pit of pitch-black tar, as decaying hands pull the victim inward and malicious whispers invade the mind, is one such shared haunt.

Curiously, where one would usually succumb to madness as the mind eventually fractures from the unyielding abuse, these Caretakers describe a sudden and unexpected burst of motivation and fortitude, which eventually allows them to conquer the trial they have been forced to endure. The presence soon leaves, and the Caretaker in question is renewed and bound to a clearer vision.

Unlike the distasteful way the Ethereal Isomnum utilizes fear as a simple weapon, whomever this presence is utilizes it as a tool to reshape the individual and make them face their weaknesses directly, producing something greater for our mission.

Because of this beneficial outcome, our Caretakers have not pursued an answer to this phenomenon and mostly accept it as a reality of their blessing and an eventual trial that they must endure in their path as a follower of the Father.

I retained my curiosity despite this, and desired to understand this hidden truth of Paradise, for to understand the Father is to grow closer to His perfection.

Surely, this presence is not one of our Children. Our Huntsmen are masters of stealth, but not even they could accomplish such feats of intangibility as this being, since our legions of telepaths would detect their trace eventually. And despite this, it was evidently psionic in nature, which would allow it to influence those chosen in the desired way.

It must be related to the Father, as He instructs the marked to be strong of mind and to steel themselves for what is to come.

What _is_ this presence?

My dear friend Preximius would deflect any inquiries and offer instead nights of feasting and excess to ease my mind.

Well rested and thankful, I nevertheless approached the other Order Commanders in my curiosity.

All were impassive, all evaded my inquiries, all deemed it unnecessary to pursue this question further, except for the Umbra.

Through a warm smile and an exquisite visage which exuded empathy and understanding, the radiant shadow of Paradise cryptically let me know that the truth would soon find _me_.

What is it that they knew and hid from me? Of course, if it was undesired for such information to leave the closely tight circle of His Wisdom, I would understand and drop the matter immediately for the good of the Father.

And yet, my thirst to understand drove me forward, but I had exhausted all leads and options of investigation.

I retired to my quarters inside the great Athenaeum, and began to ponder and think.

The truth hit me like one of the Marshall's decisive strikes.

A Saint.

Only an extension of the Father could bend all known reason and sense with such laughable impunity.

Only one Saint was uncatalogued and unknown enough by us Caretakers to create such confusion and intrigue, and it is the Father´s Ghostly Touch, His **Caress.**

The pieces assembled in my head.

His Caress is not known in Paradise unlike the other Saints.

His existence would be merely legend if not for the fact that the Umbra frequently graces Paradise with her gallant presence. As Order Commander, it is understood that she draws her power from one of these divine avatars.

Information gifted by His Wisdom long ago revealed the name of this elusive Saint, and I make mention of Him on the various scriptures I have authored for our Caretakers to follow.

The fact that this Saint does not show Himself to our Caretakers has created an aura of myth and speculation.

Each of our skilled artisans have produced artifacts which aim to honor the unseen visage of this Saint.

Grand paintings commemorating the Saints and the Artist show a tall figure cloaked in shadow wearing a fine suit of Human inspired origin standing to His Wisdom's right side.

Others depict a formless being that shapes itself to represent the various species inhabiting Paradise.

More radical interpretations assert that the Saint does not actually exist as a physical being, and is instead embodied by all of us Caretakers, as it is us who act as the hands and limbs of our Father, and through us He acts.

I know this final view is untrue, as I remember this being the Saint that rescued my old self from a purposeless life and a final death back in my old home.

But to my chagrin, all my memory could muster from this precious event was a shadowy hand grasping mine as I was brought to Paradise.

As I sat pondering, that same hand which marked the start of my new life touched my shoulder.

In the presence of a Saint one usually feels awe and utmost admiration. Words do not reach the mouth as the brain futilely works to comprehend the brilliance before them.

But there was no light standing before me.

I stared into those scarlet eyes, and I saw infinity stare back.

My life flashed before me, followed by the lives of the Overseers guarding the entrance to my chambers.

I saw their childhoods, their mothers and fathers, the friends and family they left behind. I felt the pain they endured to become what they were now.

Thousands of voices pounded my brain at once, probing for weakness, savoring my horror with hungry tongues and sharp teeth.

The cacophony became unbearable, the thousand voices becoming two thousand, then twenty thousand, then forty thousand.

My mind expanded beyond what I thought possible, and every truth I knew up to that point was taken before me and dissected by curious claws, eager to prove every axiom and mathematical equation which makes up reality wrong.

I realized I was experiencing the lives of every single individual in Paradise at once, all their pain, all their euphoria, all their glory, all their resolve, and puzzlingly, hesitation in some _ **.**_

I would have screamed, but I found an anchor to keep myself free of the darkness threatening to overtake me.

The Saint was doing this for a reason, He was showing me something. This was a test, a trial, and the Father would accompany me throughout the way.

I had to be strong for Him, I had to be strong for myself.

The voices stopped in one startling instant, and I was left with a silence fitting of the forlorn ruins I now found myself in. Where not even insects dare make their presence known, and the ground is a pallid white, devoid of all life down to the very bacteria.

I walked through the desolate wasteland. For how long was it? Minutes? Hours? Days?

All throughout the way I came across corpses. They were desiccated, empty, without flesh or any resemblance of who they were before.

Relics of a long-forgotten war perhaps? The final reminder of some unspeakable atrocity?

In this void there was no sound, no color, no breeze, no light. No star in the sky to offer guidance, no celestial ally to provide heat. No life, no nature.

There was nothing.

Except of course, bones.

My thoughts and bones.

My steps and bones.

My voice which was the only solace from the maddening silence, and bones.

Bones as far as the eye could see.

Bones in various stages of degradation. Some were powder, some were fresher, some were in the middle.

Just bones. _Blasted bones._

My reality was a graveyard, and yet I knew the bones watched me.

Their eyeless sockets desired my life with crippling envy. Desired to rip me apart so I would eventually join their eternal stay as another specter in this sea of billions.

I began to run. I feared for my safety, I feared for my life.

But the bones were dead, you say.

 _How are you so sure of that?_

I ran, as fast as my feet and my legs would allow me. The sickening crunching of those damned bones below my every frenzied step.

I felt eyes boring into my back, hungry desire salivating as my fear no doubt marinated my flesh in tantalizing desperation.

And it was then that I spotted it. A beacon of hope to save me from this ghastly fate. An object in the distance. Something that was vibrating with color, something _different!_

Determination filled my heart, and I made my way through the mountains of the dead to reach it.

And my heart sank when I finally did.

When I reached my destination, I found it to be a lush tree. A beautiful patch of green surrounding it, and with the freshest fruits I have ever seen in my life teasingly dangling from its branches.

Against my better judgement, I desperately bit into one of these morsels, and immediately vomited as the sweet nectar transformed into the taste of putrid decay inside my mouth.

The tree wilted, and the precious green of nature turned into the chalky white that permeated every corner of this curse.

I fell to my knees, utterly defeated. Another man would have wept, but my soul was empty at this point into my ordeal.

At this, the ground began to shift, and a hideous artifact emerged in front of me.

A gravestone. With my name on it. My past name.

And a freshly dug hole in front of it, perfect for my size.

It seemed almost…comforting.

Like I could step inside and forget all the struggles of life. Final rest, an end to my story.

The pit called to me, almost drew me in.

But my faith in the Father saved me. For this was no Paradise. This was not His lush Garden, it was not the eternity we had been promised, or the one we sacrificed so much for.

I called to the black heavens for the Father. For His blessing, for a single ounce of his strength.

The dead sun above me answered my calls.

A noxious sheen of darkness permeated the relic that had once been a radiant star, and rain began to pour from its enormous mass.

I began to hear impotent cries and sounds of choking.

The bones under my feet and all around me were alive as I had suspected. The rain began to drown them, and they were helpless to save themselves from this horrible end.

Screaming erupted, as the black liquid began to rise and started to completely engulf them. One by one the cries were silenced as the water filled their ephemeral lungs, and once again silence was all that remained.

And as I stood frozen in horror, a hand emerged from the edge of the pit.

I was helpless as I watched a devil rise from the grave.

A siren from my past, sent to drag me to oblivion alongside the bones.

My sister rose from the pit and stared me directly in the eyes.

She was just as I remembered her.

As warm and loving as she ever was throughout our hard lives.

When mother passed away we were left alone, alone without a father that abandoned his life for the carnal pleasures and alone without a mother that abandoned her life for her children.

Alone in an uncaring world which would see us both die without pause. We were nothing, we were expendable, unimportant.

My sister beckoned for me. A warm embrace, one I had not had in so many years, so many decades. Surely my sister was dead by now, Human lifespans are unfortunately short and in this distant past we had no access to Collective genetic modification to save us from the eternal chase of time.

But she was there, as if we were twenty years old again. When the world seemed in our grasp and possibilities seemed endless. When mortal life meant something.

Just an embrace.

Just a hug.

Just someone to help me weather the storm, to help me ease the pain.

And as my suffering melted away in that eternal moment of long forgotten affection, I noticed the inhuman appendages surrounding me, the tendrils threatening my neck and my survival.

I looked at her face as she surely prepared to strike, expecting some monstrosity cruelly mocking me with my sister's likeness.

But there was no monster. It was her. It was my sister that threatened to take me into the deep.

This was not real, for I knew she was dead. _She had to be_.

This was no sister of mine. An aberration, a malicious temptation from my subconscious. The doubt I did not know I felt made manifest before me and threatening to destroy all I had achieved and all I had become.

I pushed the monstrosity off me, I cast it back down to the pit below me and saw it sink to the unimaginable depths with a sinister smile. Her eyes hungered for my soul, but I would not yield to false idols.

The memories came back.

 _That night, that fateful night._

She denied His Touch. She forsook her chance at salvation. She refused to accompany me to Paradise, and instead chose to let her mortal instinct overtake her with a scream and a futile attempt to strike back at the celestial envoy sent to save us from ourselves.

She was killed.

Left as a dried husk before me, as her skin sloughed off like a glove and her eyes liquified slowly. The first part of her body to be destroyed were her vocal chords, and as she screamed silently she extended a hand to me. A desperate call for help, as if I somehow could help her from the path she had chosen herself.

I chose my new family, I chose the truth and I took the hand of the Saint.

And before we left, my sister was reduced to a mere skeleton. As desiccated as the ones blanketing this hell.

The Saint raised a long claw, and the remains of my sister were disintegrated in an amethyst burst. No evidence of her struggle, no legacy left for the world which abandoned us.

Erased.

My mind was purged, such weakness would keep me from my purpose.

But it was not purged completely. Her memory remained as a fleeting mirage, an image which would haunt me at my weakest and cause me unimaginable pain that I kept to myself.

Did I feel regret? A sadness for what could have been? A desire to have seen my sister alongside me in this truest of futures? Had I been heretical in the deepest crevices of my soul and resented the Father for destroying what I once held dearest?

Such weakness.

Such lies.

Such _drivel_ that I write in this parchment.

I see the truth; His Caress lifted the wool from my eyes and allowed me to see my flaws. The last chain which bound me to my old life as a sightless.

To my old life without hope, without purpose, comfortable mediocrity.

This is why some are afflicted in Paradise. It is no curse, but a blessing. Help offered freely by our Father to rid ourselves of our pasts and give ourselves into Him without doubt or hesitation.

The sea of black dissipated below me, and I found myself in the most beautiful galaxy I have ever witnessed.

But the light at the end of this tunnel was snuffed, and I saw every single one of these precious planets burst into flames in an instant.

An unseen force pulled me, and reality itself was frayed. As I slowly was pulled into the vortex before me, I had no fear, for I knew where I was headed.

I heard the voices cry out to me, and in that moment, I understood.

* * *

 _Close your eyes_

A family of four pick fruits from an orchard to sell at the local market.

 _Open them_

A family of four escape from their burning home.

 _It hurts_

A family of four replace damaged prosthetics.

 _It won't stop_

A family of four drag their once neighbors to a surgery table.

 _Whining_

A family of four are fitted with upgraded weapon systems

 _Metal screeches. Metal whines. Metal doesn't die._

A family of four receive a command for conversion.

 _Why?_

A family of four impale three escapees into conversion posts.

 _I wanted to see._

A family of four receive losses from enemy fire.

 _I wanted to feel._

A family of two scavenge their fallen for spare parts.

 _Where are we?_

A family of two are deployed alongside a family of five, a family of six, a family of three, a family of seven, a family of ten, a family of nine, a family of one, a family of-

 _Stop_

A mother takes her son's eyes to replace her damaged ones. The son smiles, for overall combat efficiency has improved.

 _STOP_

Whydidyouabandonuswhydidyouleavewhydidyounotwarnuswhycanyounotprotectuscomebackdiealongsideusburnalongsideuswecannotscreamwecannotfeelwecannotcrywecannotlivemetalreplacesfleshthingsinmyheadthingsinmybrainthevoicesdonotstoptheyneverstopenditenditenditendit

 _Please_

Prepare obtained resources for deployment. Replace limbs with chosen adaptable alternatives, enhance neural response to acceptable standards, usage of implants is authorized. Secure resources before undertaking procedure, employment of anesthetic deemed wasteful. Recommend usage of sound proofed facility, as resources have shown a negative emotional response to sounds induced by pain stimuli. Ready units for deployment as procedure is completed.

 _Worthless_

Planet 185 has been neutralized of hostiles. Resistance has crumbled, resources have been transported to secure facilities and await processing. ALPHA has taken to the field and is in process of preparing containment of area where two targets are located. Third target has been discovered, physical status frail, appears to be in stages of development. Third target marked as secondary objective after first two targets neutralized and harvested, will provide additional genetic material for processing into BETA class units. Cycle estimated to nearing completion, begin preparation of fail safes and contingencies to take place after galaxy is abandoned.

 _What are we? What did we do?_

A family of two lie in standby after their masters leave their now barren planet. They await a command that will never come.

 _Please, I want to leave. I want to go back._

* * *

Have you felt fear, dear Pilgrim?

No sentient being is immune from the most primal of all instincts.

It is our oldest defense mechanism. It guided our ancestors through the inhospitable nights and aided them in the task of survival. It is what guides a sentient today towards caution and away from perceived danger.

Fear is ingrained in our culture, and it is what drives many to act in various ways.

Fear of being forgotten, of failure, of harm or death, of failing to meet aspirations. Phobias which haunt the deepest recesses of our minds despite a lack of rationale behind them, traumas and experiences which change us forever.

 _Fear is what keeps many away from the Father´s outstretched hands._

Do you know why Humans fear the dark?

You may answer in terms of evolutionary psychology. Surely, Humans fear the dark due to a deeply rooted instinct developed by our ancestors with the purpose of evading nocturnal predators.

But what if I told you, that the dark is feared universally?

While you might believe that the dark is merely the absence of light and visibility, its significance is deeper.

The dark stands for oblivion. For the ultimate death of all that has been, is, and will be. It is the end of all conflicts, it is the final peace by which the infinite shall rest in a bed of ashes, it is the end of all strife and all struggle, the conclusion to all stories.

We fear the dark for deep in our souls, awakened or not, we know that the nothing which would follow is a possible outcome for our existence.

In the darkest of nights, a visible path is not possible to find. Your eyes cannot see what lies ahead, and your future is uncertain. Danger could lurk in any corner. A murderer, a brigand, a rapist, or a mere sadist. Your fellow man is as much a danger as what untamed nature offers, if not greater.

For those who understand the cosmic scale, the darkest night brings uncertainty as well. All options exhausted, the outcome unyielding. The night is defeat, it is death, it is failure.

The Collective Imperator fears the night, because for him it stands for the failure of his carefully laid plans and gambles. For a Sovereign, it is the triumph of another, hated rival.

For us, it is the Apostate´s supremacy.

Do you know what the Father felt as his past selves entered the Psionosphere?

Sister Omnima stewed in white hot fury and defiance at the monster of metal who had ravaged all she held dear.

Brother Agmus lamented the deaths of his gentle creations and was heartbroken at the indignations and monstrous defilement inflicted by the black hordes.

But the poor child whose innocence was offered in the altar of death to the ravenous realities of our universe suffered the most.

A child, be it Human, Ethereal, Vitakara, or even Sovereign should be a blessing. A small creature to be cherished and protected, to be nurtured and indulged.

It is a mind untouched by stifling anxiety, spared of violence or degeneracy, untainted by mortal faults. It is life in its purest state.

The Infant was robbed of a childhood.

Tell me, dear Pilgrim, how much life was ahead of that precious creature? How many worlds to see, species to touch and bless, stars to feel?

All possibilities were snuffed like a candle, and only pitch blackness remained.

The Infant was aware of this, for it would have been _too_ merciful to spare it this realization.

Tell me, honest Pilgrim, should a child be aware that its life is about to end? That the mirthful eternity promised to it has been snatched away? That all it had been taught were lies?

This child had always dreamed of seeing its parents' galaxy with its own eyes. It dreamt of feeling the cool breeze of dawn and sleeping under the twinkling stars come night. Of traversing the fields while the wind crashed against its face. Of admiring harmonious nature as the wild life lived side by side with civilization.

The Infant wished for life.

 _ **Do you realize the gift that has been given to you? Do you take it for granted as the days go by?**_

I know what His Caress represents, for He made me see with my own eyes.

His Caress is the darkness which engulfed the Infant during the uncountable years of agony and solitude inside that terrible prison.

He is the Infant's fear, and the Infant's desperate need to touch the universe it was denied.

He is the Father's weakness, the eternal reminder that even a God such as He can be broken. But just as I prevailed inside the nothingness to which I was subjected, the Father has grown mighty from the cruel sentence forced upon Him.

There is not a single being alive in this reality that has not seen the dark. We have all had our failures, our losses, our tragedies, our disappointments. To live is to suffer, but to succeed we must conquer that which binds us to our pain.

We must rise, and be remade into our ideal selves through trial and effort. We must stare our fears in the face and deny them the power they hold over us.

Every day we learn, every day we grow, every day we mature. Some may think that perfection is unattainable, but this does not mean that we must not strive towards it.

We all wade inside a storm of our own making, but only in the eye of this maelstrom will we find safety. Only when we reach the core of our affliction, can we understand it and grow strong from it.

Not in the cold, unfeeling metal and networked minds of the Apostate's legions, not in the enslaved tyranny of false comforts such as those my biological father gave into, not in the regression and fear of change that doomed my sister.

 _But in our Bringer of Paradise._

As soon as I understood this truth, the lock trapping my mind was opened.

I found myself back in my study, with the glorious Saint still facing me. He nodded in approval for what I had realized, and held one long finger to where a mouth would be.

I accepted His command of silence, for the Caretakers fortunate enough to be blessed in His presence would have to come to this realization on their own. I was not the first, and I would not be the last.

I blinked, and the Saint disappeared from my vision. On to another grand purpose, on to save another wayward soul such as mine.

But now, His Touch lies imprisoned in the ignorant Imperator's dungeons. Once again has the Father been denied the freedom He deserves.

It is only at the behest of His Wisdom that I have refrained from calling our Caretakers to act against this grave insult and most undignified cruelty.

And one sound invades my sleep every night because of this. One sound that bites into my soul unceasingly. One sound that I can hear faintly inside my head as I write this.

Dear Pilgrim,

The Infant weeps.


	8. His Onyx Grasp

**.**

 **Senter**

 **His Onyx Grasp**

* * *

"You Baptists can sometimes be very brutish. You strike like Oyariah hammers, when sometimes all you need is a simple cut.

One cannot fight if the nerves from the spine are severed, or am I wrong?

Sometimes all you need to win a war is to cause one commander to mysteriously vanish, or politicians to slowly change their minds.

Even you, my Spartan, understand the wisdom in restraint. Unfortunate that those you command do not see it like you do. In the grand scheme of things, we all have our uses however. Your time will come sooner than all think.

And _then_ all will see the power that you wield.

…

I wish I could stay longer, but there is work to do, I am afraid. The hand of the Father never rests, and neither do we.

…

Do not worry about me. We all know that I would outlast you in a race through the Dath'Haram lush, and besides, have you ever seen me sleep or yawn? Us Stalkers are above such mortal concerns.

See? We outclass your Baptists in some ways after all, even if you will never admit it.

…

Oh, I assure you that it never gets boring. You have been to the Athenaeum, right? Read all that is available on the Inner Galaxy? Seen all of the recordings?

The hope that one day I might get to see it with my own eyes almost motivates me as much as our faith in the Father.

Our Lord's touch is infinite, but His Wisdom has decreed that we steer clear of it for now. Even then, I cannot help myself but imagine the great temples of the Republic flying the banners of our Master instead of the wretched symbols of their heretical Church.

Even in their forlorn and unenlightened existence, these souls are capable of great beauty. Just imagine what will delight our humble eyes once we spread our wisdom to them!

It is unfortunate that mortals are incapable of reaching true golden ages without His guidance, but this is why we have been chosen. And _this_ is why I never rest. I do not understand how you do it with all that is at stake.

…

It is…. almost poetic in a sense. This small galaxy of ours, so filled with natural majesty, so packed to the brim in danger…

The galaxy that will see our long overdue emergence, and the one that shall witness our final triumph.

Do you think our youth will be preserved until that point?

Or shall I be a withering rose whose petals gracefully fall, while you become a bearded fossil constantly breathing down your successor's neck?

…

Ahh, I am pleased to know that the Human appreciation of wit I adore so much has survived His Fury's training regimens!

…

Well my dear, it seems that I am running late. Figures you would be the one person capable of straying me from an objective.

And I would have it no other way.

…

It will be a universe of love, and it will be ours."

 _Recorded conversation [curated] between the Marshall and the Umbra_ \- Overseer Dossier on Bri´sindierra´paradise

* * *

As you understand, _**increasingly insightful**_ Pilgrim, an Order represents the highest glory of Paradise that a mortal can achieve.

Only the Artist herself amongst mortals can factually claim to touch the heavens, and the Holy Saints above her serve as embodiments of divine will. Therefore, for a mere Caretaker such as ourselves, an Order is the highest elevation possible.

Such an honor brings forth incredible power, physical perfection, high standing amongst excellence, and above all, _prestige_.

The Father is a modest being. Given His sheer power and the grand scope of His true self, He would be rightful in ruling reality with a fist of iron and an uncompromising will.

A sightless mind may attribute His kindness as cold pragmatism. He needs us in order to cross, and therefore plays the act of benevolent god to convince us of His mission.

He bends our minds slowly and insidiously, depriving us of an opportunity to break free and escape.

He would be exactly the same as His brethren. He would be one more Sovereign, and us puppets like my species has become under the Scourge of the Meek.

 _ **Falsehoods**_

A Sovereign sees tools and resources to utilize in a galactic game of chess.

A Sovereign creates the illusion of alliance and mutual cooperation while secretly laughing at the preposterous idea that god and man are equal.

A Sovereign will shed no tears and feel no remorse if a puppet needs to be sacrificed to ensure survival or put into motion a scheme on top of thousands of others being fulfilled simultaneously.

A Sovereign will sacrifice billions, cause untold suffering and erase entire cultures if it means obtaining one small advantage or leverage that will not make itself apparent until centuries after the sacrifice have passed.

In place of this abhorrent waste, the Father welcomes all to Paradise. Cultures, beliefs, philosophies, sciences, artistic expression. Paradise is a _majestic_ mixture of all that mortality has to offer, elevated to impossible heights by the loving guidance of the Father.

In this universe, we are all pawns of someone or something. The Apostate and his hellish legions reap the harvest of trillions and enslave them to machinery. The Sovereigns keep their pawns and their long-scaled plans for victory.

There is no independence, not eternally. Those who are alone and isolated will eventually be found by the true powers of our universe, and be either enslaved or annihilated.

The Collective Imperator seeks to break this cycle, but he does not realize the sheer enormity of his task, or the impossibility that a lone mortal faces against such odds.

His goal is admirable, but he does not realize that the mortal has no place in a game of deities. The mortal needs backing, power, resources.

 _Leadership_

All gifts that the Father would have willingly provided, if only this Elder was not dominated by his fear of the unknown.

Tell me what you would do, Dear Pilgrim? If you knew that your species did not matter in the reality of your existence?

If you knew that at any moment the mockeries of metal could descend upon your world and erase everything you held dear with total impunity and indifference?

Or that if you luckily escaped this fate, you would still eventually fall to the machinations of a Sovereign, who would approach your species with a false choice between willing servitude or forced slavery?

And no matter your desires, your species would now become a weapon to be wielded against other innocents that befell the same fate as you did?

Do you now understand the value of the Father?

If you have no choice in your fate, what benefactor would you choose?

The difference between our Lord and the other powers of this universe, is _intention._

The Father utilizes us, that cannot be denied, but in exchange he gifts us something beyond compare.

He gifts us _eternity._

In the Father, our mortal souls ascend far higher than what would be possible under someone else or on our own. We gain understanding, we gain vision, we gain power, we gain a companion that will never part ways with us.

A companion that knows us with the intimacy of a close family member, a companion that gives us strength when we need it the most, that shares in our grief when we need someone to do so, a companion that serves as an unbreakable stalwart when our insecurities and weakness demand one.

He is a friend, someone that can look us in the eye with pure certainty and tell us that our pain and suffering will end eventually.

Upon the death of our physical shells, we rise into true afterlife, which is a concept that should not be possible, but by the grace of the Father it has become so. We will meet the great minds of past cycles, and we will add ourselves to the Gestalt.

Unlike a Sovereign master, who would always see us as lesser due to the simple fact that we are mortal, the Father offers us the opportunity to become one with Him, and He one with us.

We will be preserved forever, as our sense of self without aberration. Our minds have long been prepared for this ascension, and to become a Caretaker is to expose the mind to the Gestalt.

We let the trillion voices gently caress our souls, we allow them to transform us and allow us to take the final shape that our Father envisions for us.

To throw the unprepared mind into the Gestalt is to destroy it irreparably. A tragedy of this type can be avoided, and all Caretaker recruits understand this careful process.

You may decry us as conditioned or controlled. After all, a powerful psion such as the Father would accomplish such with ease.

The truth however, is that we undertake this choice willingly, for we understand what the triumph of the Apostate means for this universe.

Can another Sovereign offer this? Can the Apostate?

Even a monster such as he has recognized the allure of everlasting life, but all that he can offer is metal. A shadow of existence inside a hull which serves less as a new home and more as the death mask of the species that once was.

Both our Father and the Apostate offer similar concepts. Immortality, eternal survival, an escape from the unstoppable march of time.

However, where the Father offers Paradise, the Apostate imposes Hell.

The Father grants undying love to His followers, He assures us, He celebrates us, He exalts us, He stands by us.

The Apostate's Dark Paradise is a place of cold metal which rips apart the sacred, nature gifted flesh of helpless victims. It is a place where infectious nanomachinery invades the mind and forces it to fight itself. Where resistance is broken, and where no hope or tenderness exists.

It is a lifeless factory, where millions are rendered down and reshaped into an indescribable monstrosity that is then unleashed upon further innocents.

Where young, starry eyed species full of promise and dreams for the future are forced into submission. Where their destinies are denied..

To burn this _ **insult**_ to the ground and destroy the Apostate is our greatest goal. To crack open the shells of metal and free the trillions who silently scream inside is our burden.

 _To oppose the Father is to aid the Apostate._ _ **Never**_ _forget this, loyal Pilgrim._

 _It is only in blissful ignorance that the sightless unfortunately resist us, for if they knew what the failure of the Father means for their lives they would scream in horror for days on end._

As I said near the beginning of this entry, the Father gifts his Orders with prestige. But the truth is, that all of us Caretakers are prestigious by the mere fact that we have seen Paradise.

However, the Father rewards distinction and merit, and therefore His Orders are rewarded handsomely.

Fine art exalting members, monuments to their commanders, expertly crafted weapons and armor, lodgings worthy of kings and queens.

For the Overseers, the Tranquil Athenaeum serves as a grand study hall, filled to the brim with books and manuscripts shared by the Caretakers of past cycles who ascended to the Gestalt and recreated by us in gratitude.

It is a place of immaculate baroque architecture, where monuments to the great thinkers of our long history and past prophets lie in peaceful watch over the students of today.

It is a sanctuary of knowledge, where Caretakers of all rank are welcome to expand their minds. Because of this, it is not uncommon to observe squadron and legion captains in silent meditation as they train telepathically alongside Overseer tutors or inside His Love's dreamscape on special occasions.

Overseen by His Wisdom, it serves as the command center of Paradise, and its last level of our station before the heart of our home is breached.

With humbleness and graciousness, I can proudly admit that it is where I currently reside.

Seeing as you are a fellow scholar, dear Pilgrim, you probably noticed that the name of this eminent location is of distinctly Human origin.

Originally, this layer of Paradise was very mundanely named. Respectfully, His Wisdom is a being of practicality, and He sees little value in the application of grandeur beyond His physical appearance which has been carefully designed for a positive gain during battle.

It is fortunate that Caretakers such as myself are under His command, as we can inject life and atmosphere to Paradise in our own unique ways, and so I did in this case.

Other Orders have lodgings that stand as a symbol to their greatness and the many facets of the Father that they honorably defend, and some Order command centers such as the majestic Moonlight Cradle deserve entire books dedicated to them.

These I shall reveal in future iterations of this work.

There is one Order however, that lacks a detectable presence either inside Paradise or outside it.

It is an Order whose existence would be myth amongst us, as their patron Saint is to the overall Caretaker population, if not for the beloved presence and renown of its commanding Umbra.

It is an Order whose work is _felt_ rather than seen, as was the case during a recent successful operation in the Human country of Korea.

 _Three thousand fortunate pilgrims added to our ranks._

 _Three thousand who I oversaw as they entered holy Paradise._

 _Three thousand whose eyes I opened as they battled through our trials, as many died their physical deaths and ascended to Paradise, as they stood triumphant and joined our ranks reborn._

 _Three thousand that you could join._

It is the highly elite group of assassins, spies, saboteurs, and saviors of the fortunate sightless that we know as the Order of the Changing Blade, the **Soul Stalkers** of beloved Paradise **.**

Most of what I will reveal to you in my coming words is either unknown or considered as rumors by my fellow Caretakers.

My position and standing with His Wisdom provide me with access to truths that few know, truths that I have shared with you throughout this work, and truths that I shall continue to reveal so you may understand our Father.

The Soul Stalkers are the Order under the patronage of His Touch. They are the Grasp of the Father, and execute His will outside Paradise.

They are responsible for the demise of individuals whose deaths are beneficial to our mission, the capture and extraction of those marked by His Wisdom for potential induction into our ranks as I once was, or the subtler art of altering someone's memories or perceptions to lead to a desired shift in decision making.

In rare cases where the Father's all seeing eye is blocked from observing, such as in key Collective facilities they lie silently. Observing, documenting, waiting.

In locations such as Ethereal Blacksites where the benefits of infiltration do not outweigh the risks of discovery, they have installed permanent watchers to track movements inside and outside these secretive space stations.

They have mastered the psionic ability of reducing one's traceable telepathic signal that His Touch is feared for, and combined with their mastery of stealth and concealment they are the Father´s eyes and ears in the places beyond his reach.

Sometimes they are His scalpels as well, should His Wisdom decree it so.

What is admirable, is that the Soul Stalkers have never failed an operation or missed a quarry. To be marked for death by the Stalkers is as good as an execution itself, and to be marked for extraction is a sure invitation to Paradise.

For these reasons I have named them Soul Stalkers, for if their mark were to die by anything other than their hand, they would follow the transitioning spirit to the depths of Hades itself and tear it out of Cerberus's cold dead jaws.

Such is their perfectionism, and the skill that allows them to satisfy it.

I speculate that Venadiar, third of the Chosen and the Artist's Watcher, has earned a spot in the Umbra's personal list of objectives for capture after his unfortunate betrayal.

However, we must remember that Venadiar acted within the expected parameters of a sightless, who feels extreme fear at what he does not and has no intention of understanding.

His mistake cost us, but it has not jeopardized our mission. The Father forgives, and in our infinite love, we will offer him the opportunity to ascend beyond what his small imagination can conceive.

As he is under the Battlemaster Elder's protection, his extraction would be problematic as of this moment.

Until our Father crosses and we free ourselves from the Imperator's grasp, that is.

He will be made to see the truth, and he shall make a powerful warrior for the Father. As all of the Artist's Chosen will be.

It is a pleasure to see Senorium's eagerness and love for his creator mother. It is good to know that at least one of these beings is not foolish despite their mortality.

Do not fret, wise Pilgrim. If this information were to come to light as I write this work, we would lose many of our advantages and incur the wrath of the Imperator.

But if you are reading this, then it means that the Father has _**surely**_ crossed and thus, these are past events to be celebrated as achievements.

What makes such an impeccable record possible for this Order, is their training and equipment.

From the Stalkers I have interviewed, their equipment is utilitarian aesthetically, but nonetheless up to the quality that one expects from an Order.

Rather humorously, Master Z'Erstifex felt insulted once he received his first requisitions from the Umbra, exclaiming that "she might as well have hired a Desolan Muton if she wants something so simple and bland!"

The old Andromedon prodigy has a short temper, and it is clear that his masterpieces are a point of pride, as they should be.

Despite his reservations, the Master Blacksmith complied with the Order Commander's requisitions, as duty towards the Father's mission is **always** above our personal preferences and desires.

In the Stalker's arsenal you will find all kinds of instruments of death, each designed to deliver a swift and barely noticeable end to enemies that stand as obstacles between an agent of the Umbra and their objective.

Throwing knives, daggers, poisons, Legion infested grenades, choking wires, silenced firearms and other weapons I have no name for. All complimented by a vast array of masterful psionic abilities.

Their particular trademark is a technological marvel pioneered by the Father in a long past cycle. Firearms that utilize the user's personal psionic wellspring as a power source.

The more powerful the user's ability to manipulate the Psionosphere, the more devastating every shot becomes and the lesser the toll it demands from the user.

The damage resulted from one of these arms is nothing short of devastating. Most armor is vaporized outright or left as a mangled amalgamation of metal and flesh. I am sure you can imagine what it does to bare skin, dear Pilgrim.

The Umbra employs Human and Sectoid Stalkers as her marksmen assassins for this very reason.

She has also tried unsuccessfully to convince the Grand Marshall to approve the wide implementation of this technology amongst his legions, for they are masters above most Orders in the art of open warfare.

It may be only a matter of time before the Spartan yields to her charms, I suspect. The Marshall is a practical man and should see the benefice towards diversifying his melee combat focused Order.

In addition, the relation between these two commanders is almost as widely known throughout Paradise as Preximius' Cradle, but this blissful symbol to the beauty of harmony overseen by the Father I shall touch in the future.

Curiously, His Wisdom has taken upon Himself the task of devising training regimens and programs for the Stalkers, even though His Touch is this Order's patron.

As a result of this decision, Stalkers are exceptionally well drilled, and treat their vast array of weaponry as fine instruments to be played delicately, each producing a different melody when a life is taken.

I have witnessed mock battle between Order combatants, friendly tests of mettle and might.

To see a Stalker face a combatant in a personal duel is to be an attendee at a refined ballet or theater.

Every move seems choreographed; every dodge, every parry, every counterattack flow like the sea or like a shadow. Teleportation is employed constantly, and it is exhilarating to have one's eyes darting from one corner of the arena to the next wondering where exactly the Stalker will emerge from, or from what angle the next strike will come.

The Stalkers must understand how the audience sees them, for they smile subtly or sport a knowing smirk in their faces as they direct the tempo of combat and choose the terms of engagement.

There are many more aspects to this Order that I am privy to, such as their training regimens, their command structure, their methods of communication, their favored tactics and more.

But it would not be wise for me to expose what essentially serves as our intelligence service in such a complete way would it?

It is unjust to attribute all of this Order's excellence to His Wisdom.

We must provide proper _exaltation_ to Bri'sindierra'paradise. Umbra of the Soul Stalkers, and the brightest shadow of Paradise.

The woman who would one day become one of the most venerated Caretakers of Paradise was once named Dath'sindierra'dathyasith.

A veteran of Chief Impara's elite hunting parties renowned for her skill and determination, she would rise to become one of the youngest Bladedancers in Dath'Haram history.

As a Bladedancer, she would receive the finest training that her species could provide, but one day would disappear during the routine lone hunts she was so fond of.

All who knew her would be puzzled by her disappearance. Surely someone of her skill and experience wouldn't die due to an accident during such a practiced course?

Had she simply left? Too tired of her life as a Bladedancer? A young woman looking for more dashing adventures or new experiences outside of what her family and friends could provide?

The truth was that His Wisdom had marked her for extraction during the early days of Paradise. His Touch would infiltrate the Dath'Haram lush and track down Sindierra.

Observing her was not necessary, as Vitakar is not shielded from the Father's all seeing eye, and a dossier detailing her behavioral patterns was already written by the Overseers before His Touch was authorized by His Wisdom to begin the operation.

Extracting a lone Bladedancer with no psionic defenses whatsoever must have been a remarkably easy objective for one as powerful as His Touch.

The Saint is careful and has an eye for detail however, and telepathic triggers and parasitic commands were inserted inside the minds of all who knew Sindierra. Over time, all memory of her would be forgotten, and today only a lone unmarked grave in the Crypt of Haramoalian stands as the sole memento of her past life.

Sindierra was brought to Paradise, and inducted in the ways of the Father. An eager student, she combined the vigor and skill that her training as a Bladedancer provided her with further lessons by His Wisdom as well as His eye for operational perfection.

However, before her induction was complete, His Touch assigned her a more personal mission, unsanctioned by His Wisdom.

Track down her old family.

Determine if they were of acceptable potential to become Caretakers.

Extract those who were.

Eliminate those who were not.

Sindierra hesitated for the first time since she started training. Even if her family had forgotten her, she had not. They still had a place in her heart after the long years of training.

His Touch stared her down with His six ruby eyes, with such an intensity that made it seem as if they were blazing in ethereal fire, and Sindierra understood the seriousness behind her patron's request.

She approached His Wisdom for advice, as the Saint had become a mentor for the Dath'Haram Caretaker.

 _Your task has been evaluated. It is tactically feasible for one of your skills and of little strategic impact._

 _My sibling has assigned such for a reason, Sindierra. You will determine what it is that you must see._

Sindierra entered the Dath'Haram lush in the pit of night for the first time after her extraction, and reached the house that had seen her be born and grow.

As she stalked the rooms through the night, she sent telepathic commands to force her old family members into a deep sleep.

One by one, she sent each profile of the sleeping Dath'Haram back to her Saint for review.

Her heart sank when not a single member of her family was approved by His Touch for extraction.

She drew her blade, and steeled herself to accomplish what she knew she had to do, but had hoped would not be necessary.

She sent telepathic commands to every single family member. Induced dreams and brought back repressed memories of the daughter and sister they had forgotten existed. She crafted each to be as gentle and pleasant as possible.

She went to her parent's room first.

Two throats were slit, liquid warmth carpeted the floor.

 _We are proud of you Sindierra. So soon and already a Bladedancer!_

Her eyes remained dry.

Next came her two older brothers.

The same execution. Instant. Painless

 _Look, there's our little baby sister!_

 _Don't tease her, or she will beat us up! Have you seen her hunt? Did you forget how she humiliated that Oyariah traveler who challenged her to a duel?_

 _Don't be ridiculous, she's always had a soft spot for us!_

Her lip quivered. Her eyes went humid.

She reached her small sister last.

Sindierra held the bloodied dagger in her hand, but couldn't bring it to her throat. She was paralyzed by the sight before her.

She was all grown up. A beautiful Dath'Haram woman in her own likeness. A far cry from the small child she remembered.

 _Sindi, do you think I will be as pretty as you when I grow up? I want to be a Bladedancer like you too! Look, I'm already practicing! I know it's just a stick and your sword is much heavier, but you will see one day!_

She glanced at the sword laid down in one corner of the room. The armor laid to rest beside it. Like she once wore.

She wept. The dam finally fractured. She collapsed to the floor, let her bloodied dagger loudly clang on the floor.

Bitter tears. Bitter screams of anguish. His Touch had to enact a telepathic field over the entire village to drown out her wails and prevent them from being discovered.

Sindierra stared at her bloodied hands through the salty sorrow, and in a moment of weakness, the telepathic spell placed over her sister was lifted.

The younger Bladedancer awoke, and Sindierra snapped out of her debilitating state. She buried the dagger deep into her sister's eye, and started to further beat the now corpse.

She had been weak. She had disappointed the Father and herself. All the training was for naught, all her efforts and her skill had been shattered in one damned night.

Sindierra took out her frustrations on the body, and only when it was left as a bloodied mush, did she snap out of her blood haze and her fury.

She looked at the mangled mess in front of her and loathed herself even more.

How could she call herself a follower of the Father? Did the Father not teach His children the value of love? Did the Father look at this massacre with disapproval?

Or...did He approve?

The Father spoke about love for all species. He spoke about a shared future for all mortals.

About forgiveness for His Sovereign brethren. Did He not promise justice after the death of the Apostate? Paradise?

Was this Paradise? Five innocents killed in the middle of the night? One of them so beaten as to be unrecognizable?

One who shared her face? Who could have easily been her?

 **No**

Heresy had invaded her thoughts. She was doubting the Father after all He had offered her.

She had sinned. She deserved no Paradise.

She left the house. Her eyes empty and distant. She walked slowly to the waiting Saint who appraised her.

Sindierra stopped in front of the Saint and dropped to her knees.

She produced her own dagger, slick with the essence of her once family, and moved to stab herself in the stomach.

A slow, torturous death. Fit for a failure such as she.

But her hands were forcibly stopped before the weapon could puncture her skin.

The Saint took the blade from her hands, let it drop to the ground. He lowered Himself to His knees, looked at her face to face, and enveloped her in a warm embrace.

Sindierra had never received such an affectionate showing from her master, and she allowed herself to weep once more in her friend's arms.

She cried and cried until her eyes burned, and all the while they sat on the ground in front of her house.

While the moonlight bathed Saint and woman, His Touch gazed her in the eyes.

Six garnets looked into the two topaz windows into His protegé's soul, and His Touch spoke.

 _In this life, sweet child, you will experience loss. There will be those who see you as you are, who will share your triumphs and carry you through failures._

 _Those who will stand with you despite hardship or despite differences. These, you will love above all._

 _But in this cruel mortal universe, nothing will last forever. They will be taken from you, your shared story will end. With every soul that leaves a mark in the pages of the great book that is your life, you will grow._

 _Mature, learn, develop. Every day you will learn something new. Every day you will correct a perceived flaw in yourself, and you will grow closer to your ideal self. To the perfection that not even I can reach._

 _But you will also feel nostalgia. The ghosts of the past will haunt you, will weigh you down. To forget is easy, but to confront the specters of yesterday face to face is to know true strength._

 _What you have done today I would have asked of no one else but you. Your tears are no weakness, they are a sign that you are alive. That deep inside, our lessons have not failed._

 _That in the long years of your awakening, you have not been reduced to a mere weapon, you are more than a tool to be used or discarded._

 _You embody all that I admire in mortals._

 _Before I offered opportunity, you were already exceptional. Your life was one that was destined to end at one point. You knew that one day you would expire, your journey would come to a close, and yet you still excelled. You made the most out of your short life._

 _A small, precious star. Determined to shine brighter than any other, before succumbing to the merciless march of time._

 _And in this trial of trials, you still retained your sense of self. After all I had shown you, after all I had given you, your love for them was still greater than your love for yourself._

 _You are no monster. You have risen above all who would classify as such._

 _Your family lived a beautiful life, dear student. They could not join us, but they are not lesser._

 _Their sacrifice has served well, and in the conclusion of their stories, they have done more for you than they ever did while you roamed these very halls._

 _You have freed their souls from a meaningless existence. You have provided them mercy in the sweet, painless end you delivered._

 _Wear their memory not in sadness or longing, but as a motivator. You have seen the tragedy of mortality first hand. You have baptized in the spilled blood of those unfortunate sightless, and you will now understand that this is but the first of many sacrifices to come._

 _When you doubt, remember them. When you believe in your weakness, remember them._

 _Remember every life ended by your blade. Each one makes the cost of victory. Each one helps craft the bridge to Paradise._

 _And when we succeed, I shall give them all new life. A new start in the hallowed halls of Naztrum Ognis._

 _I know their faces, I know who they were in this physical plane. I know all that they did for you, all that they mean to you. From the moment you were born, I have been observing, Sindierra._

 _I was there when you grew and became who you are. I was at your side during each of your celebrated hunts, and when you accepted the ceremonial blade that marked your beginning as a Bladedancer._

 _I cried alongside you when life brought you down, and I cheered for you when in triumph you offered your name to the stars._

 _And as I have walked at your side unseen, I have done the same for those you slew tonight._

 _I will remake them for you. Free of the faults which kept them from joining us. Free from the pain that each felt inside. In the hollows left by the excision of mortal poisons, intoxicating and eternal euphoria shall take root._

 _You will see your family again, and they will not be weights dragging you down, but feathers for your wings._

She composed herself at her master's wise words. He was right.

Sindierra had let her family become an anchor. They held her back, prevented her from fully accepting the Father and her future full of promise.

She was Dath'Haram, too attached to family, too sentimental, too frail. The training had only masked this, but the tumor had to be extracted if she was to evolve and grow.

And in that precise moment, Sindierra died.

The Umbra was born in her place. Free of weakness. Free of anchors.

The bloody scene left behind was not tended to. It was not disguised as it would usually have been.

At the Umbra's insistence, His Touch planted false memories on "witnesses", that placed the blame on the Nulorian terrorist Sorras.

The being that in that moment grasped His Touch's hand and returned to Paradise would go on to become one of the first Order Commanders of Paradise.

Her flawless form betrays not her age, as she predates even some of our holy Saints.

She would found the Soul Stalkers, and train every single hand picked member personally with her two Saint mentors at her side. She would impart the training she remembered from her time as a Bladedancer on the new recruits, and craft a tool worthy of the Father who showed her a new way towards the next life.

The ordeal that shaped her into the figure she is today would be demanded of every single Stalker candidate.

The story of her rise is known only by myself and few other figures.

For the rest of the denizens of Paradise, her past is a mystery that is overshadowed by her elegance of today.

Despite her role as Order commander on what could be called our spy agency, she is a public figure in hallowed Paradise.

For most Caretakers, the Umbra has _always_ been a constant in their ascended lives.

Hers would be the visage that welcomed me into my new future upon my arrival, as well as countless other fortunate individuals.

Hers is the warm smile and cheerful laughter which brightens every day in holy Paradise. Hers is the delicate hand which the Marshall holds during envied waltz in Master Preximius's Cradle.

Hers is the sacrifice which would inspire many parables and tales to enthrall all future generations of Caretakers.

Hers is the kinship which would melt the ice around the Marshall´s suffering heart.

And the time to ask the primordial question is now dear Pilgrim.

 _ **What will you do when her alluring eyes stare into yours and beckon you to Paradise?**_

 _ **What will you say as her lavender voice invites you into true life?**_

 _ **What will you feel as her soft hands move you towards that amethyst portal?**_

 _ **Will you have accepted Him by that point?**_

 _ **Will you try to resist the inevitable?**_

 _ **Dear Pilgrim, the moment you found this parchment you accepted my call.**_

 _ **We will meet in person soon.**_

 _ **Do not worry.**_

 _ **I know all about you.**_


	9. The Beating Memento

**.**

 **Imahil**

 **The Beating Memento**

* * *

" _Child, I have seen the very history of your species._

 _I know what it is like to feel glory, to think of yourself as invincible, and to lose it all in a blink._

 _Work that took centuries to accomplish, torn down in mere moments._

 _I know the solitude that you feel, cast aside by your brothers and sisters, for they fear your mind._

 _I know how you shield yourself from these thoughts, by shunning them as ignorant brutes. Unwilling to take the necessary steps._

 _To breach the limits of the possible._

 _Yet I know the feelings that haunt you once your guard is down. I know the doubt that gnaws at the corners of your genius. The self-deprecation that stifles your creativity and your pride._

 _I understand you, because in a sense, I see myself in you._

 _My brethren shun me and fear me as a monster. My mission has been foiled countless times, and I share the pain of the harvested as penance._

 _What if I fail?_

 _Will death come to all that exist and will ever exist, until the stars themselves die?_

 _What if I am wrong?_

 _What if my blessings are shunned because they are as abhorrent as many say?_

 _Eons of solitude in the void wear the spirit down._

…..

 _I can sense your confusion. How can a being as mighty as He be shackled by such simple emotions? How can a god be worn down by the concerns of the lesser?_

 _That is your mistake, my dear child._

 _Our feelings are not a weakness. Our fears and our doubts are not gaps in our armor, they are reminders that we are alive. Our achievements are all the more fulfilling, if there are obstacles in the way to reaching our goals._

 _You fear that what your companions say might be true? Prove them wrong._

 _You are afraid of the implications should we fail? Assure then, that we do not._

 _You doubt your genius and capacity to bring to life the impossible?_

 _I will do everything in my power to make your wildest dreams come true._

 _Beings like us are unique in this solitary galaxy, but we have each other._

 _Through a will of iron, and through honest effort, we cannot fail._

 _To succeed is to forfeit a part of your very soul to the Cause. All of us share this burden._

 _The canvas is yours, cherished Artist. Paint what you know we will_ _ **endure**_ _."_

 _-Dreams of the Artist, verse 28_

* * *

If you asked me, dear Pilgrim, if any deities other than our Father existed, I would say the following:

Nature is the one entity that can catch the Father's eye.

The Mother is not a being of reason, and yet Her touch and majesty are felt throughout the cosmos. All celestial bodies, from the enormous gas giants of my old home system, to the dead stars that have ended their story as dust in the deep winds, are Her work.

Life is the most beautiful byproduct of natural occurring phenomena. The conditions must be perfect for it to arise successfully on a world, and when it does, it comes in uncountable varieties and ways.

And even in inhospitable hells or in the cold forgotten void, microorganisms sometimes carve survival out of the fabric of their stillborn fate.

Some mortals come to understand Nature's wild perfection and choose to live in harmony alongside Her. Most species however seek to tame her.

To master the resources she provides, to dominate wild life that has existed eons before they achieved cognition.

Many destroy what Nature has provided to them, and defile the pristine Edens that their ancestors gawked at with legends and lore.

My own species was embarked in this self-destructive path until the war from the heavens commanded their attention and united them under a false purpose.

Invariably, no matter how much harmony exists or how much carelessness is exercised between mortal and Nature, no simple being can control Her or direct the course of Her instinctive might.

 _The Father is not a simple being, dear Pilgrim._

The power to manipulate and direct Her is one that is available to the Father due to His mastery over the Psionosphere.

The orbits of planets can be rearranged to create new systems and eventually galaxies, stars can be positioned in such a way as to form new constellations which adorn the night sky.

Psions constantly seek ways to apply their vast abilities to manipulate the world around them. Cells can be ordered to accelerate their healing, or be commanded to die.

Friction and air molecules can be directed at the micro scale to create bolts of lightning. Tectonic plates can be stimulated to induce tremors and earthquakes, winds can be harnessed and unleashed as hurricanes.

There are few limits to what the power of the Psionosphere can impart upon our frail physical reality. The two constraints are usually the power of the psion in question, and their imagination.

 _ **What psion exists with greater power than the Father? What mind with more understanding on the intricacies of the plane beyond the veil?**_

The Father can bend reality to His whim, dear student.

I could provide you a list of the sheer possibilities available to a being with full control over the source of Psionics, but I would have to write an additional tome to even begin touching the surface of what the Father will be capable of when He crosses.

Imagine one of the venerable Saints presented to you in past chapters.

Their skill surpassed by very few, but their power able to be overcome by mortals. An artificial limitation imposed for two reasons.

The first, to avoid incurring the wrath of the Imperator during our vulnerable state. The second, to fool him into _underestimating_ the Father's power and sheer scope.

Now imagine these very same Saints, dear Pilgrim.

Remade and unshackled after the Crossing. The full power of the Father able to flow freely through their veins.

Each rivaling a Sovereign once sufficiently augmented.

 _Each being but a fragment of the Father's physical vessel._

Assets capable of matching the so called masters of this universe in raw psionic might. Champions to herald the conquests and triumphs necessary to establish our power upon the untouched stars and to open the eyes of whomever may foolishly oppose us.

Creations of such power will be a necessity if the Father is to wage holy crusades against the only true enemy directed by the Apostate.

Nature is no match for the Father. Her wild instinct can be tamed wherever the Father steps foot. Her unguided efforts can be directed for a singular purpose. Great phenomena such as supernovas can be harnessed and transformed into weapons to wield against those who oppose our Holy Mission.

And yet, the Father scorns such an approach.

Why enslave Mother Nature? Why force Her hand when She has already proven Her impeccable skill?

Why tamper with Her exquisite designs? Would we be any different than the Apostate if we embarked in such defilement?

The monster who turns flesh into steel? Who leaves pristine gardens as barren wastelands? Who abducts Her children and excruciatingly transforms them into monstrosities?

 **No**

The Father and Mother hold hands in this War of Wars. In harmony and unison, the Mother provides Her invaluable gifts and resources, which the Father perfects and wields.

In exchange, the Father exalts Her image, and preserves Her prestige.

A Human woman by the name of Yang Shuren was once offered a rare opportunity.

She willingly stepped through the gates of Naztrum Ognis, and came to experience the truth of the Gestalt.

The Father Himself spoke to her. Revealed what He had revealed to the thousands of Ethereals before her who sought the simple-minded goal of becoming elite Battlemasters.

Since the Father had not yet fully awakened His incomprehensibly large mind during this cycle, many of these Ethereals could only grasp flickers and whispers of the Gestalt.

 _But those who made that fateful leap of faith were rewarded with_ _ **revelation**_ _._

As expected, her shortsighted will rebuked our Lord and the honorable Elders who desired to open her eyes.

A commendable effort, a fruit of the Father's compassion and belief that even those such as her can be redeemed and saved.

A testament to the Father's kindness and understanding, _ **that He didn't rip her mind out of her frail body for rejecting her one chance at salvation in such a disrespectful way.**_

Her story is unimportant, dear Pilgrim.

Ignorant children such as she cannot be faulted if they fail to step out of their precognitions and biases.

A shame however, that the scars over her mind caused by exposure to the tear in the Veil will prevent us from rescuing her soul upon the sure death she will face at the hands of the Scourge of the Meek.

Alas, this is not why I have brought attention to this woman's journey.

What she saw in Naztrum Ognis is the testament to what I have presented earlier in this chapter.

A world of nature, where the warm sun presides over gentle prairies. Where refreshing and clean rivers nurture the land and house exotic wildlife. Where the great family of the Gestalt can convene in peace without the conflict and differences which plague mortals.

It is the visage that broke Amareoux's reservations and gifted us our cherished Artist.

To use a Human concept, it is the figurative wedding ring that our Father lovingly presented to the Mother.

It is highly amusing to us, dear Pilgrim, whenever a mortal witnesses Paradise or interacts with our Caretakers.

The words "unnatural", and "impossible" are muttered repeatedly. They cannot conceive the reality that what their sciences had determined as fact could be wrong. They are incapable of stepping down from the pedestal they have erected themselves to realize that they are no masters of physical law.

To become a Caretaker is to be humble first and foremost, to throw yourself into the abyss of the unknown. To know and be at peace with the truth that you do not understand everything about this universe.

 _It is majestic, thrilling, exhilarating even to ponder on what false fact the Father will demolish next._

 _Oh, how unnatural it is to see a Muton wield telepathy! How impossible for a Vitakara to teleport!_

In Paradise, such statements are as ridiculous as my past people declaring flight unable to be achieved before the Wright Brothers broke that false fact during the beginning of the twentieth century of history in the azure planet.

As you can imagine, dear Pilgrim, a Holy Saint exists to embody this very ideal.

Deep in the final layer of our humble station exists a being that can be difficult to describe with mere words.

A being that gives shape to the miasma of our Father's agonies and weaknesses.

You must be confused. Was this chapter not honoring the harmonious relationship between the Father and Mother? Have I not dedicated a thousand words towards satisfying your admirable appetite for discovery?

 _Open the mind's eye dear Pilgrim._

What is the first guaranteed facet of life?

 **Pain**.

In this journey that we all embark upon, we will face loss.

Death, abandonment, disappointment.

We will set goals for ourselves, metrics through which we measure our worth.

When these metrics cannot be satisfied, our need for validation satiated, suffering takes ahold of a soul.

The Mother suffers greatly, daily in fact, even though she lacks a conscience to feel it. Her loved spawn war with themselves without end, her celestial bodies are destroyed or left barren by the hunger of industry and the pyres of bloodshed.

The Apostate routinely kidnaps her children and makes mockeries of them, to be set loose upon the unsuspecting innocents again and again.

And the Father, dear Pilgrim, suffers above us _**all.**_

Can you try to comprehend the madness that a trillion voices pounding your mind incessantly must induce?

The screams that cannot be drowned out? The lives of the uncountable flashing before your very eyes for every second of your ancient existence? Forcing you to relive the loss and pain that drove them to you in the first place?

 _ **Do you know what the screams that the Apostate harvests during a cycle sound like?**_

We are one with the Father, because we all have _lost_ something.

We realize that together under His guidance we can amend the wrongs which have been imparted on us all.

 _That we can become something more, despite how many times we have been broken._

And those of us like the Umbra, who had an ideal life before revelation and had personally lost nothing, realize that all collective creation will never be free unless we assist our Father on the noblest mission.

 _That is why she took her blade to the throats of her tragically unworthy family. In order to understand the Father and his eternal sacrifices, she had to pay a price of blood._

 _A molecule in a sea compared to what He has seen and felt._

 _And in the bitter sorrow she released on that moon bathed night, she made her weakness hers and put it in display for the world to see._

For you see, studious Pilgrim, pain is not something to be afraid of. It is not a shame to feel your imperfections. To discover what holds you back from true ascendance.

Let me tell you a story, loved Pilgrim.

Many cycles ago, the Ethereal Empire faced extinction. The legions of the Apostate had awoken from their deep slumber, and the Harvest had begun as it had always begun.

The Elders fought bravely, their might was unparalleled amongst the mortals of the galaxy at that time, and the Apostate paid for their destruction in the form of one of his lieutenants.

Before this war, an Elder with a name forgotten by the ages became a member of the prestigious division of Overminds, but was gifted with an unusual interest in the art of destructive psionic application. Appropriate training was commenced in order to impart an offensive edge to this master of the mind.

As hostilities commenced and the war which would end yet another cycle progressed, this Ethereal was taken prisoner along with many other compatriots.

Exposed to countless tortures and indignities, his mind was left battered and scarred. The might of an Ethereal reduced to a shell of what it once was.

All in a cold experiment designed to determine the more straightforward ways to compromise the minds of Elders. An insidious tool in the Apostate's arsenal, one that turns family against family as the dark laughter of this monster echoes through burning planets and grey graveyards.

Rescued from the clutches of his captors, he never forgot his comrades still trapped in the factory of steel and tears.

He organized a strike force with the honorable mission of routing the machines and if possible rescuing the trapped unfortunates.

However it soon became apparent that the latter would prove impossible to accomplish, but the Apostate's legions would be forced to the grave alongside their victims as retaliation for the committed barbarities.

The key to this strategy was the deployment of a remarkably powerful Elder, known to the Collective at the time of writing this as Deusian.

The Reaper would turn this accursed celestial into lifeless rock and cinders, while the Overmind would hold the minds of the dark legions stationed in the planet to prevent cowardly retreat.

In a show of compassion, this Overmind would shield the minds of his captive brethren as well, so they would not feel despair and horror as they were destroyed, still inside their prison.

But this act of selflessness came at a great price. To shield the minds of his brothers and sisters, he had to absorb the pain they would all feel through their telepathic bond.

He felt everything.

 _Everything_ , as every being in the planet was slowly atomized by the Reaper. Everything through that fateful bond.

To say that he never recovered is an understatement. The fact that his mind did not snap in two and he lived the rest of his days as a pitiful vegetable makes for a fascinating study of Ethereal psychological resiliency.

A title was adopted, the only two words fitting of such a damaged being. A being who had fallen from glory and had never reached the bottom.

 _Ravaged One._

He would come to see the constant agony he faced as a curse placed on him.

An undeserved fate, which coupled with the ultimate destruction of the Empire and people he held dear transformed him into a bitter being who would spend his days secluded and removed from his last remaining brothers and sisters.

He must have wondered why he had been chosen when the Imperator extended an offer for survival.

Why a being as broken and useless as him had been selected when those far mightier and capable had been fed to the Apostate's furnaces.

This Ethereal let the hatred for the dark be his one mission left in his doomed life. The one motivator, the mast and sail for a ship adrift in a stormy sea.

He never knew that the Father stood at his side during everything he lived.

That the Father wept when he could not find any tears left to mourn the death of a species.

Another beautiful candle extinguished by the winds of the Apostate.

As _countless_ had before.

As _**countless**_ would after that.

The Ravaged One would come to see pain as a weapon. A tool to inflict upon his enemies, to make them feel what he had felt. To form an intimate connection between inflictor and victim. To attempt to break the overwhelming loneliness he felt deep in his soul.

Even if he would never admit it to himself, the Father knew.

When the Imperator sent him to the azure planet, knowing his weakness would herald his downfall, we were watching.

When he was sent to the slaughterhouse as a means to elevate Humanity further, so it could reach the heights desired by the Lord of Elders, we were ready.

But when his head was grasped by the machine warrior of the Iron Commander, when his arms were restrained forcibly to prevent defense, when life flashed before amber eyes as death became an unthinkable reality, we were held back.

In that moment, before his life was lost forever, the Father could have reached out.

In a moment preserved for eternity, the mind of the tortured Elder could have been freed from his rapidly failing body.

The Father would not have let him die in such a manner. Bound, helpless, in _unimaginable_ agony.

He must have remembered his unforgettable past in the mercy of the Apostate's monsters in that solemn moment.

But His Wisdom barred us from interfering. We could not expose ourselves to a new potential enemy in our shackled state, let alone one under the possible supervision of a Sovereign.

Had this Elder found himself in the shores of Naztrum Ognis, we would have opened his eyes to something he never understood in his mortal life.

You see, curious Pilgrim, pain is not a curse or an affliction. It is the one road towards perfection.

To lose something is to appreciate what you have left. To fail at a mission or objective is to see your faults and grow past them.

To know agony of the body is to value your existence more fervently, and to fall into the abyss of the mind is to be granted an opportunity for _**strength.**_

In the same way that Elder Fectorian's great machines must be tested repeatedly in order to identify imperfections, we subject ourselves willingly to trials of the mind and body.

Through the pain we share in solidarity with our Father's plight, an agony that a mortal cannot comprehend, we become _whole._

To be a Caretaker is to know pain in every moment of your physical life. The unmeasurable energies of the Father _burn_ us constantly, brave Pilgrim.

My life has been long for a Caretaker.

As I write this, I can feel yet another bronchi of my battered lungs finally shrivel and expire.

I have lost fingers on my weathered hands grasping the writing utensils to offer you a chance to break free from your silent slavery.

Blood is a reality whenever I am overwhelmed by the need to cough, and I will soon require assistance to even walk as the bones of my legs crumble to fine dust.

And this is _good_.

It is _just._

 _ **Beautiful.**_

Because despite the punishment I willingly inflict on myself every day, as the angels of the Father whip my physical vessel without mercy or pause, I _endure._

I endure because this pain gives me strength. It gives me joy, and it is a daily reminder of all that I have become.

Because I am not afraid of my demise, whether or not His Wisdom has a further role for me beyond my natural lifespan, as I know the Father awaits me with extended arms and a loving smile.

And this power, this capability to rise again despite countless defeats and failures, the capability to live in a state that would leave most crippled and broken, these hallowed ashes that will rise as majestic phoenixes, is embodied by His Toil, His Endless Wails, **His Sacrifice.**

I misled you earlier in this entry, dear Pilgrim. There is no being inside the final layer of Paradise.

The final layer of Paradise _is_ this being.

A Saint is not constrained to one base form, curious Pilgrim.

Arms to interact with our surroundings, legs to move ourselves through our beautiful worlds, heads to house our minds and eyes to connect ourselves visually to those around us.

This is Nature in a familiar form. A piece in the portrait of the primordial order that is repeated constantly throughout the cosmos.

Now, creative Pilgrim, imagine the Mother freed from her shackles. A _chaos_ that overwhelms the senses, the spirit allowed to be free from limits of the mortal imagination.

A being that has a thousand arms, a million mouths, and infinite eyes.

A jungle of sacred flesh, the precious innards a mammal comes from, or the protective shell that sees a reptile and avian come to exist.

Have you ever asked yourself how we bring to life the many "unnatural" realities of Paradise? How we gift to existence creatures that the heretical decry as affronts to Nature?

You could take an educated guess, and make the observation that genetic laboratories and workshops are available to us for use, and you would be partially correct.

The truth is that resources as mundane as those provided by the Imperator's Collective will never be

enough to properly craft beings to the standard of our Father and Mother.

His Toil is the key to the creation of perfection, It is the bridge between these two fundamental forces of our universe.

Deep in the final layer of Paradise, past the forest of tendrils and buried in the luscious meat and bone, exist birthing cavities provided by our beautiful Saint.

Inside these cavities, we insert the creations of the Artist and the Magistrate, and life in its purest form is injected into the sleeping bodies.

Life that can only be mocked in replication by the Apostate and those who dabble in the biogenetic sciences.

Life that can only exist by the will of the Father and the Mother.

Inside the gentle cavities, the Children are nourished.

The love which is the product of the union between Father and Mother warps them from their original, designed form.

A cherished chaos, to ease our minds as they drift from the order of our past mortality and into the inscrutable shapes and forms that serve as testament to the Father's dominion over reality.

And during this entire process, the Father suffers. His Toil moans in never-ending labor as the Children grow and consume the succulent fat and amnion provided to them.

The screams of the Saint are a reality inside the deeper levels of Paradise, though only the initiated can detect them. To expose the pilgrims of the upper levels who await their new fates to such unfiltered telepathic punishment would drive them to insanity within seconds.

When the Children are finally born and break free from the orifices they once called home, the Father weeps.

Not in response to a trillion nerves who scream at the tearing and ravaging of promethean meat, but at the sheer beauty of a new being savoring its first steps in a world which embraces it.

The pure life offered by this Saint has opened the door to possibilities which are beginning to be explored by the Artist.

What would happen if you combined a Human with a Chryssalid, dear Pilgrim?

On one hand, we have the ingenuity, intellect and willpower natural to a Homo Sapiens.

On the other, we can find the ferocity, implacability, and genetic adaptiveness of a Chryssalid.

Two predators, different strengths, different weaknesses.

We could take these ingredients and produce a creature inside a sterile laboratory. A creature borne out of order and planned design.

 _But what if we let the eager chaos splash the canvas with these pigments?_

A Human and a Chryssalid enter a welcoming cavity.

The mouth beckons them inside. It speaks about deep desires that the Human did not realize it felt.

It appeals to the instinct of the insect; irresistible pheromones are released.

Both enter willingly.

Sometimes the Human is afraid, for it was taken from its past home and in an instant found itself in a place it could not comprehend.

Sometimes the Human is steadfast, for they were ready to accept destiny as a Caretaker, but for a specific cause failed. They wish to serve the Father regardless, and accept this offer for ascendance.

Regardless of their past lives, the song of the carnal lips cannot be resisted, and once inside all doubts are erased.

The scarlet hole fits them perfectly, as if it was custom made for them both in advance.

A serene sleep is induced.

The Human usually dreams of the moments of childhood involving parents. If their past lacked such a crucial reality, a perfect dream created from the ideal experience is provided instead.

In their sleep, His Toil's prowess begins its sacred work.

Bones are broken, realigned, and reformed.

Nervous systems are melded and made into one.

Musculature and circulatory systems are intertwined.

The mind becomes singular. The strengths are amplified, the weaknesses discarded.

Blood is bountiful, as organs burst, and from the raw materials provided by their meat, new vital components are created to beckon this new shape.

The eager chaos paints a canvas that cannot be matched by the rigorous and controlled mindsets of mortals.

The shapes would be decried as mad if they were to ever witness them, but we understand that such ignorance originates from a lack of vision symptomatic of those who know not the Father.

The newborns are blissfully unaware of His Toil's screams as they drain precious lifeblood from the generous Saint.

They are heedless to the suffering of every Caretaker in Paradise, as we refuse to block out the telepathic sobbing and howling out of sympathy for the Saint who pays the price of life every second of every day.

They sleep soundly as the Saint's many tendrils cradle them once born and vulnerable. The pain caused by their tearing out of the cavity as the instinct of survival takes over them forgotten and forgiven.

They wander blindly as they feebly look for the Saint´s thousand teats, ready to suckle on the life-giving energies offered selflessly by our Father.

We have repeated this very same process uncountable times, dear Pilgrim.

Mutons and Vitakara, Sectoids and Andromedons, Humans with Ethereal organics, Andromedons and Mutons, Chryssalid with Sectoid. Even the rich pigments provided by the Inner Galaxy have found a home in His Toil´s cradle.

Many times, combinations including of all of the above.

The list goes on and on.

A hundred thousand newborns sleep under His Toil's gaze.

We shall bless every species we find with this gift of creation. We shall surprise the universe with our creativity and vision. Let no bound remain unbroken, let no limit remain uncrossed.

Under the Father all is possible.

The legions of new beings that we birth upon this galaxy and the next will be fed. They will be maintained and nourished.

New life, as sacred as that seeded by Brother Agmus upon a tranquil galaxy so long ago, will be brought from the hidden depths of Paradise and into the forefront of our triumph and expansion.

Let the mortals witness what the Father is truly capable of. Let them sing hymns and craft myths in honor of the wondrous angels who descend upon their worlds and bring the freedom they always wanted but were too afraid to claim themselves.

Let the hidden chaos emerge from the depths of the Father's domain beyond the Veil and let it destroy the eternal stifling order that mortals are shepherded into by the Apostate.

Let axioms be rewritten and let physics burn. Reality is ours to tear down and repaint, dear _**Initiate.**_

For you see loyal Initiate,

This sacrifice is our burden

This burden our pain

This pain our pleasure

And this pleasure our love.

* * *

Are you a Human like me, precious Initiate?

Do you remember your mother's womb?

The warmth that enveloped that small and vulnerable little light of life? Do you remember how you ate of her? How you drank from her blood and shared in her food and drink?

How you chewed.

Slowly.

On her flesh. On her life.

 _Was it delicious?_

How you chewed on her blessings.

How you took.

How you took without asking.

 _You never stopped eating, after all._

The sheer suffering she endured to birth you. When many others would have rejected you and cast you aside as waste on a bathroom.

 _You want to remember._

 _I know you long._

Inside her womb,

Could you listen to her heartbeat?

The pounding? The pounding that you knew wouldn't stop?

 _For if it stopped yours would have as well?_

Do you remember the taste?

 _You had no mouth, and yet you ate._

Sweet? Sour? In between?

And the smell? Something you cannot describe, yet know to desire?

Have you smelled that? Have you found it?

I remember.

 _ **The Bringer birthed me again.**_


	10. Most Welcome, Most Adored

**.**

 **Balimna**

 **Most Welcome, Most Adored**

* * *

The old Caretaker marched down the halls of the Ascension Ring.

His bones creaked with every step, groaning in abuse and perceived defilement by eldritch vim coursing through withered veins.

His step was unending, betraying an appearance of frailty and fragility.

He had repeated this process a hundred times before, and would a hundred more after.

Those of lesser rank would have gladly performed this task much more quickly than him.

 _But intimacy with his readers was the one luxury he partook in._

The screams and wails were common in this layer. He could easily tune them out, but he never chose to. Better to bathe in this beauty while it was available.

In a decayed hand, bones splintered by effort and sores leaking crimson, he held an ankle.

An Initiate, female, from a species whose name did not matter, for they all were the same under Him.

The Initiate had been unruly upon arrival. Perhaps she read the Chronicles out of sheer curiosity and had never believed it was all real.

It did not matter. Those who read this far showed promise.

A simple telepathic command froze her body. But he left her head untouched. She needed to see her surroundings, to understand precisely that what she had exposed herself to was alive and waiting for her.

He wanted to hear her voice as well.

Some screamed all the way, as if this was some sort of odyssey; their minds completely clamped shut.

Those, he sent to His Love. Nights of pleasantries and courtesy worked wonders to soothe the mind and ease them into willingness.

Some asked, eager to learn, hungry for vision. Those, he indulged in, sharing knowledge and history. They would fare well in the tests and tribulations to come.

Some decried what they had read as all too corporeal madness. The byproduct of a broken thing that believed Himself a god, a place of twisted morality and unspeakable barbarity.

Sightless.

Typical, but frustrating in one who had every opportunity of enlightenment handed on a silver platter.

Those, he sent to the Trials. They would not pass, but in physical death they would ascend and finally realize their wayward ways.

The Father cared not for who you were in this world, but what you pledged in the next.

But she was different, rarer.

He heard no voice from her.

She was afraid.

And yet a calm silence betrayed no weakness.

 _Promise_

The old Caretaker dragged her through the Ascension Ring.

He could sense a growing dread at the sight of the Initiates. A small voice in the back of her mind which told her that this was waiting for her.

And she was right.

 _But she had to see first._

The old Caretaker dragged her into the Prophet´s old audience chamber, and he stared at the dried blood intentionally left to stain the tiled floor.

Before, the stain had induced fury in the old Caretaker´s heart, but now it was just a memory of different times.

He remembered that particular incident as if it was yesterday, watching alongside His Wisdom with pure disgust as the Prophet was disrespected so boldly.

How different was everything now.

He allowed himself a smile at the thought of that old Ethereal daring to raise a hand at the Prophet today.

The old Caretaker and his guest stepped through the gateway, into the Halls of Eversion.

Holy second layer of Paradise.

Here, the perceptions of mortals were turned inside out. In this layer, the façade of normality presented in the first layer was stripped away.

As a mortal must be slowly shown the truth of the Father, so too does Paradise grow holier with every descending layer.

He could feel her bewilderment at the pulsating Nature covering the walls, the undecipherable glyphs and symbols enchanting her mind, and the million ebony eyes boring into her soul.

His arm gave out from the weight imposed upon it. It escaped its socket with a sound that sickened his guest.

He felt inconvenienced, such occurrences were too common now, and the Sculptors could do little to reverse his considerable age by this point.

Perhaps his time was approaching. A thought to ponder on later.

She looked at his face, as he adjusted his extremity. The skin resembled gray, worn out leather. Deep cracks surrounded his eyes, and she knew many more were hidden under his long mane of facial hair.

His eyes stared at hers, for a second perhaps, but she saw a thousand years go by in those blazing, pale spheres.

The pair passed through an old theater. Dust covered the abandoned seats and forlorn stage, but she could swear she heard laughter and applause in the very back of her mind.

She was glad they left that room quickly.

She knew she saw a small specter peek at her through the curtains, giggling in a faint but unmistakable high pitch.

Or maybe her eyes were playing tricks to her mind in this accursed place.

The old Caretaker dragged her through another gate. The ground was cold, a fortress of iron.

A deep black void was all she could see as her back scraped along the smooth ground.

And in that endless night, a cerulean smile followed the pair as they moved towards destiny.

He noticed her dreamy eyes, as they stared with longing and a carnal hunger uncharacteristic to the Initiate.

Ah.

One of the Master's Maidens was enjoying herself.

He held a hand up, issued a command in a tongue older than the formation of his former home.

The Child would not feed this time.

This Initiate was not to be left to this fate. This purpose would be left for another.

Whether that other was luckier than an Initiate depended on which Caretaker one asked.

Ancient man and youthful Initiate reached a far more ornate chamber.

He reminisced about a one-sided duel between mortals and gods, while he placed her stiff body upon the enormous gate before them.

He had let her speak, but she had refused to do so.

Perhaps this next step would not trouble her so.

Another telepathic command sent, and this one forced her mouth shut and locked her head in place.

The gate opened, and dozens of sinewy arms emerged. Various shapes and forms could be seen. Different numbers of digits, mutations and evolutions of the basic form.

The all shared something in common. They twitched and grasped at her body with baited excitement.

The Sculptors were ready to entertain their new guest.

As the extremities dragged her into the gate, he could see her eyes start to blink rapidly, and stare at his face as best as her position allowed.

A curious sound emerged from the silent woman at last.

He heard her voice.

A soft whimper.

It was hardly a surprise. Mortals rarely kept their composure at the sight of the fourth layer.

It did not matter now; her journey would soon truly begin. Fear was a response to the unknown.

 _ **And she would now know.**_

No mortal had ever emerged from His Womb in the same state they entered.

In their place, only smiles and words of gratitude.

New comrades freed from their pitiful limitations.

His welcomed and adored.

* * *

Welcome Initiate, make yourself comfortable!

You have baptized yourself willingly, as the truths offered by my modest work have finally touched your mind irreversibly.

At no point have you been forced to continue reading, and yet you have impatiently devoured all that I have and continue to offer.

You read this tome with the vigor of infants suckling on their mother for soft life giving liquid.

 _Let us provide what you desire, for you have come to realize that all life depends on the Father._

You have obtained knowledge that not all mortals are capable of digesting. Many others would have burned this book upon finishing the chapter before this one.

It is a deliberate choice from us, that exposure to that which mortals consider revolting and impossible be gradually revealed.

To be one with the Father, one must accept that offenses towards what one considers reality are an everyday occurrence.

If a candidate cannot handle this very basic tenet, then with sad eyes and heavy hearts we must turn them away from the opportunity of service to the Father.

Doubt not, Initiate, that Paradise will come to them. The awakened will pass through its gates first, however -

 _It is only just that service be repaid._

Let me greet you in Paradise, close Initiate.

You must familiarize yourself with the holy grounds you will soon walk daily. With the Caretakers who will serve as your comrades and partners for life. To the trillion saved souls you will be able to contact daily.

I know you heard the story.

Of an old Ethereal who came to seek answers from the Prophet. An old Ethereal who carved a path of blood and violence caused by his inability to accept what he saw with weary eyes.

Of the Dead Ethereal, awakened once more into a world he was too repulsed by to understand; battling against the one force that could have helped him against the Apostate he lost everything to.

Of the Loved Ethereal, whose empathy and compassion were barred from reaching the Father´s welcoming hands by her mortal biases and fears.

Of a crusade stopped by the hands of our great Saints, and of the deep Paradise they never managed to experience.

Do you know why His Wisdom stopped the Battlemaster in that specific gate? What was there that he was not meant to see?

 _ **Wouldn't you like to know?**_

In the fourth layer of Paradise, Nature eagerly joins the Father in loving waltz. A monument to life, an invitation to pure love that is to be kept from the eyes of those who cannot possibly understand.

In this layer, new beings are created. Concepts mastered by Brother Agmus, who dwells as part of the Father's Trinity.

Dreams and visions sent to the Prophet. Creations not only to be used as defenders and champions, but each a living statement and symbol of our very beliefs.

In this layer, the pigments offered by the genetics of species who existed before and exist today are combined and reshaped to produce something that would never occur without guidance.

Some members of my past species affirm that we were designed by a mind. Be it that of a deity, or the hand of a spacefaring civilization who had mastered the necessary sciences.

I know that to be false thanks to the Father´s long sight.

Our forms are too mundane and controlled. We evolved and adapted to the environment around us, and yet our shape never broke out of the constraints of uncontrolled Nature.

If we were designed, it was done so by a mind incapable of true brilliance or vision. Someone who could not express themselves to the fullest heights that imagination can reach.

Someone afflicted by the ailments of the sightless.

I have seen with my own eyes creatures that have been designed by He Who Must Be Deified.

I have conversed with them, I have walked past them, I have seen them fight and I have seen them die.

To walk amongst a thousand species who have been awakened to the truth of the Father is sublime, but to live alongside the product of His mental endlessness?

To feel the breath of the very future? To see them walk their first steps of life and to know that one day whole galaxies will belong to them? That they will be the Children of the Paradise we will open for everyone?

 _ **That**_ is beauty.

And yet the Prophet who receives the Father´s dreams and revelations, the Prophet who draws the intricate designs of the Father´s progeny, the Prophet whose work has given life to our holy Saints and His Children is just one woman.

She requires assistance. Extensions to her hands and tools for her brilliant mind to wield.

In the fourth layer of Paradise, such skilled workers are available to serve the Prophet. Masterful surgeons, geneticists, biologists and chemists.

In this layer wide workshop of life, factory where the creativity of the Prophet takes shape, they can be found.

Lords of the laws of organics, the Order of the Splendid Evolution, **Flesh Sculptors** of pulsing Paradise, tirelessly labor.

The second oldest Order to be founded, the Sculptors from the point of their foundation onwards would assist the Prophet in the construction of the remaining four Saints after His Touch and His Wisdom.

Their full transition into what they are today would not come until after His Toil's great heart beat for the first time and the covenant between Order and Saint was formed.

You see, dear Pilgrim, Sculptors are different from all the other Orders that you have encountered thus far.

If their mission is to reshape the flesh to reflect the soul, to take Nature's gifts and transform them into art worthy of the Father, then what better practice course than what their own bodies provide?

A Sculptor barely resembles the species they originally came from. The amount and invasiveness of their modifications is awe inspiring to behold.

Allow me to provide some examples:

I have seen Human Sculptors who have pushed their heads and brains inwards, towards their torso. So that their minds can be closer to their hearts and souls, and therefore to the Father´s enlightenment.

I have spoken to skinless Vitakara whose mouths were removed from their faces and grafted into their backs, so that the expected becomes the unexpected, and the constraints of mortality can be done away in the minds of those who they witness.

Some of the more committed will go as far to pull their nervous or circulatory systems out of their bodies and rewire it so that it is visible over their skin. By doing this, they prove to the Father that they have nothing to hide about their work or creed.

Some enhancements are less philosophical and more practical in nature. There are many who have lined their faces in dozens of small beady eyes; removing unnecessary clutter and making space for these sensors by discarding noses, mouths, ears, hair, and other deficiencies provided by unguided Nature.

This network of visual sensors aids the Sculptor when operating, and the way this new sight has been described to me is that some of the eyes serve as a biological clinical microscope, while others offer vision into less precise and diminutive aspects of the meat they work on.

As a result, Sculptors with such an array are capable of simultaneously engaging in micro scale work such as rewiring nervous pathways or modifying cells, and macro scale work such as modifying musculature and bone structure.

This may even be supplemented by visual sensors in their hands and fingers, as some Sculptors prefer to reshape their digits into surgical tools by sharpening their own bones via biopathy, rather than utilizing artificial utensils.

And I must add, intrigued Initiate, that this is merely a taste of their _external_ uniqueness. I have been present at Sculptor self-surgeries, which are treated as a test of readiness due to their inherent difficulty, and I can say that the internal structure of even the least visibly modified Sculptors is both puzzling and majestic.

In some, completely new organ systems, nervous pathways, muscle configurations and skeletal architecture are so neatly arranged and interwoven with their original forms that they resemble something which naturally evolved over millions of years.

In others however, the changes are clear as the brightest day, crafted in disorder and apparent madness and yet somehow still functioning and coordinating as well as something produced by the controlled hand of Geneticist Revelean.

Designed on purpose to evoke the greatness and, inconceivable to mortals, truth. Nature guided and unleashed by the Father will never be able to be matched by the products of the sightless or by that which occurs commonly in worlds untouched by civilization.

Of course, in no procedure are anesthetics included. The pain of the operations is in no way a negative.

A caterpillar reconstructs itself inside its pupae before emerging as a butterfly. Its body breaks itself slowly, and reforms to a superior shape and form.

The caterpillar is alive, and its mind is too small to comprehend the very basic principle of the Father it embodies.

Those of sapience can understand this gift, and yet the sightless are too weak to embrace it in its fullest. They put themselves to sleep, or cease sensation in the areas that are afflicted.

 _ **They might as well ignore their souls and lives.**_

No Caretaker of Paradise partakes in such sacrilege. No Child, no Saint, not our Prophet.

We understand that this agony is meant to reshape not only our bodies, but our minds and spirits along with them.

If an Order combatant suffers an injury, it is not only their physical vessel that is afflicted. It is the self as well, the ego, their soul.

To cure the soul in addition to the body, the soul must be awake during procedure.

It must feel every incision, every scream of the nerves and every impulse to stop the surgeon.

It must resist all urges, and it must embrace that which mortals fear. Only then can it grow and be cleansed of the weakness of the sightless, and only then can it be cured.

Pain is the most intense of stimuli that the body can impose upon the mind and spirit.

A person will betray loved ones and principles if sufficient pain is applied by a skilled hand. Sufficient pain will leave the mightiest champions and surest leaders as shambling wrecks.

Fear of pain will lead many to take a desired course of action, to be manipulated by the inflictor.

The desire to avoid emotional pain caused by experiences of psychological trauma will shape a person for the rest of their lives.

The dread of an eternity of torment is one of the primary motivators for religious beliefs on my old azure planet.

Pain is a weakness for the mortals. But why let it continue to be a detractor? Why not transform this primal reality into an ally?

If pain is inescapable, then we must face it with a smile.

It is this blessing that the Sculptors administer to themselves every time they surpass their previous evolution, to us every time we desire enhancement or biopathical cures, to the Children upon conception so that they may understand the place of all upon reality from their very first moment onwards, and to the guests of Paradise.

 _So that they may forget their flawed pasts and join the ranks of the fortunate_.

In this Church of Rebirth, this Holy Womb where all enter flawed and leave whole, there is one priest above all other servants of the Father.

The Andromedon who would ascend to become the Prophet´s right hand could not have imagined the impact of his work or the heights he would reach.

I´Trentar was once a brilliant scientist of Union Irriaran. A genius mind, the Prophet and His Wisdom quickly marked him for induction into the ways of Paradise in the earliest days of our organization.

Once His Touch and the Stalkers came to existence, they were quickly tasked with extracting this key figure.

The Prophet realized very early that she would require those of skills and profession similar to her own in order to give shape to Paradise, and this cadre would need leadership.

I´Trentar was quickly taken from Andromeda Prime, before his aptitude would elevate him to a position where his removal would bring too much alarm and attention. Records and memories of his existence were carefully erased, and today nothing remains of his past life.

To satisfy the specifications asked by the Prophet, a wave of inductions was carried out by His Touch following the extraction of I´Trentar.

Vitakarans, Humans and more Andromedons would be added to the mixture. Hive Commanders would be of too high risk to extract, but some of their secrets and aptitudes are known to us, even if their vaults are too much of a risk to penetrate.

The Flesh Sculptors took form, and were a well-known, if reclusive, presence in Paradise by the time of my own arrival and start to my new life.

Due to the skill and qualifications required to even be considered as a candidate to this Order, the Flesh Sculptors make up the smallest of these congregations in Paradise, and His Wisdom has forbidden them from participation in combat operations with very limited exceptions.

S´Trentar, whose name was subtly changed to reflect his new self, would catch the Prophet´s eye. At last, she had found an individual capable of keeping up with her mental encyclopedia of knowledge and her impeccable skill.

He would learn all that the Prophet would offer him, and his hand can be seen and felt in every layer of Holy Paradise.

And yet, it has always been the Prophet that guided the crafting of the Saints. It has always been the Prophet who designed the Children. It has always been the Prophet who dictated the work she would commission from the Sculptors.

S´Trentar is greatly honored to form part of such perfection, and yet the work is not his alone. He is the Prophet´s scalpel, but he is not the mind which guides the hand.

There is one masterpiece that is his, however.

And that is himself.

The label "Andromedon" is something the one now known as the Sculptor Magistrate discarded long ago. He is something completely new; _violently_ different.

The Magistrate has changed himself so thoroughly that he no longer resembles anything I can compare him to.

He has fully embraced the principle of transmutation embodied by the Saint who is his patron, and he represents the very apex that a Caretaker can achieve in the terms of evolution guided by our Father.

The Magistrate´s face has six eyes, placed in a circle or ring in the center of his pale face. A small and gentle mouth akin to that of a Human woman sits in the center of this ring of eyes.

These eyes can extend from his face as they are connected to long veins that resemble tentacles in girth.

As the Magistrate prefers a personal approach towards his work, these eyes he will frequently insert into cavities and orifices.

"To change that which is sightless, I must first see that which impedes my work" is a common mantra taught to Sculptor trainees.

In his head rests an exposed brain that pulsates noticeably whenever he speaks or works. He has changed his own skull so that it forms into a ring over this brain. In this way, the Magistrate exalts his mind so that it may be sharp enough to heed the Prophet´s words.

His arms he has modified to the point that each extremity can break in half horizontally. Musculature, nerves and blood vessels have been reshaped so that each emerging arm can function independently once released from the bone.

If they need to extend beyond their natural reach, S´Trentar will repurpose the muscle mass of his shoulders and torso so that they may help the limbs grow to their desired point.

Inside his body, the Magistrate has arranged cavities and spaces to house even more extremities and tendrils, which he extends and employs if necessary.

The most ingenious of these intra body modifications is a nest of Children designed by himself. The curious insects walk on six limbs, and each limb ends in a serrated point that is as sharp and precise as a micro scalpel.

The Magistrate will employ these creatures as extensions of his own self, and direct them telepathically as they burrow into the body of the patient and perform the desired incisions. The creatures will then either insert the components S´Trentar wishes inserted or extract that which he wishes extracted.

The Magistrate´s body is great in size, and his preferred method of work is to loom over the patient and let his many extensions work. Patients have expressed the overwhelming sensations that he impeccably unleashes upon their bodies, and each tendril, each finger, each limb and each extension is described as having a mind of its own.

S´Trentar has the speed and dexterity of about six high ranking Sculptors by himself, and frequently carries out operations personally without the need of assistance, save the guiding presence of the Prophet when new creations are being birthed for the first time.

Such showings are watched by the Sculptors in the Magistrate´s personal operating theater, and they learn the methods of their master as he carves and cuts as Michelangelo sculpted during the azure world´s artistic Renaissance.

Such is the testament to S´Trentar´s skill, that only he is allowed to treat the Prophet for any wounds or ailments, and Order Commanders seek him out for treatments or the necessary maintenance required to keep their enhanced bodies healthy.

It is interesting to admit that the two master craftsmen of Paradise are both Andromedons. One a lord of the flesh, another an artisan of steel.

The Imperator´s Collective does not value this ally sufficiently. The Father makes no such mistakes.

Another notable aspect of the Magistrate is his means of locomotion. Even the rudimentary bipedal form so common to most of us is too impractical and inefficient for this eminent academic.

His original legs he has replaced with six long vein-like limbs positioned in a similar configuration to that of a spider, which he keeps retracted inside his back.

When he walks, the Magistrate lets these powerful limbs burst from his back. The former Andromedon can move deceptively quickly while being carried by these tendrils.

When standing during operation, S´Trentar will push flesh from his torso and waist into the two lower legs, transforming them temporarily into crimson pillars that serve as a base to keep his massive form stable.

Master Preximius frequently engages in friendly jest with the Magistrate, playing a false sadness and disappointment at his lack of presence in the shows and performances hosted by Those Who Weave the Dream.

It is all without sincerity of course, as all of Paradise understands the great burden S´Trentar has taken upon himself and his Order. If he deems his work too important to be paused for the Father´s gleeful indulgence, then his decisions must be respected and understood.

The fruits of his labor speak for themselves, after all.

* * *

 **The Final Metamorphosis**

 **The Garden's Opus**

"Our bodies are beautiful. They are Nature´s fine tapestries, immaculate sculptures, fine wine for the eyes and the soul.

It is no wonder that primitive species tend to worship their own, as the divine creations of deities and celestial beings.

The unenlightened believe that it can be improved, pushed past the limits of what should be possible.

It is truly a testament to the elegance of our Father that such truths are a universal constant, regardless of their ignorance or misfortune.

The body is meant to be pushed, to be changed, to become _perfect._

Should we disrespect Nature Herself by not adding our own unique touches to Her work?

Should we be afraid of the depths of creativity that our minds can achieve?

Should we fail to thank the Father for the gifts He has provided?

Or must we touch the eternities of the Garden through the blades of our scalpels?

 _This_ , is what the Artist understands. And it is her exquisite portfolio that has cleared the fog from my eyes.

We will push. We will replace. We will cut. We will perfect. We will change. We will be pure.

We are painters, weavers, masons, craftsmen. Life is our canvas, and we graciously show the All Mother how Her designs can evolve.

Rejoice! All around us there is proof of Her gratitude!

Sing! For our art blesses the holy union between the Mother and our Father!

Weep! For there are wicked beings who would see such love destroyed!

There are trillions of souls in need of our blessings, and my heart breaks daily as I think of their purposeless lives.

Remember this, fellow Sculptor: Screams are an automatic, involuntary response once an unenlightened brain is exposed to our Truth. Heed no attention to them, as you chisel away the imperfections of your canvas. They will praise your work, once your scalpel is finished.

You just opened their eyes, after all".

What you have just read is the creed that all Sculptors adhere to. The basic premises that we accept during initiation into this most prestigious of institutions and holiest of tasks.

In your hands you hold life and death, you bear a responsibility that few can handle soberly.

But you must be aware of this already.

I am Magistrate S´Trentar, and if you are holding this document in your hands, then you probably know me as a member of the First.

The Caretakers of Holy Paradise who witnessed the Crossing of our One Father, who were at His side as He ushered a new age for this universe.

An age that so many have failed to bring forward. If you read this, then this grave heresy has finally been corrected, and the work of the venerable minds of the Gestalt has been vindicated for all time.

In the name of the Father, I am pledging myself to leaving my memoirs for those who will eventually take my place as Magistrate. If you read this, then you must be the one to take my place.

In His Gestalt we are undying, but for the sake of efficacy I must leave written records for future generations. If those who come after desire my counsel, they will find me in the halls of Naztrum Ognis, sharing all that I have seen with the great individuals of before.

As our hands have been guided in moments of need, so too I extend this offer for those who read this.

Take heed of my words - however - Do not rely abusively on the age-old minds of His Mental Cosmos.

Allow your own creativity to create forms never seen before. Use your scalpel as a painter would use their brush, and _create_.

Have no qualms, have no boundaries, have no reservations. Be unrestrained to the limits of what is possible, impress and surprise those who watch you from the perpetual beyond.

Let us proceed.

In this ever-expanding work, I will chronicle my experiences as leader of the Flesh Sculptors of Paradise. There have been Magistrates before me, and there will be more after you, but we all have an obligation watch over each other. Our work ties us together, and you will join a close union of individuals responsible for the creation of brand-new life.

I will begin with the Children spawned from the Artist's privileged mind and brought to reality by the hand of my Sculptors.

I will not waste both your and my time with the minute details regarding their development and production, as you should surely be able to find those in the encyclopedias and databases available to all Sculptors.

In this work, I will offer you my personal insights and inspiration behind the design of the creatures that currently inhabit Paradise and serve the Father.

As precious as these Children are, they will pale in comparison to what you are used to seeing in the domain of the unshackled Father.

Each Child is a symbol representing something dear to us, but I must admit that each is still incomplete, their potential yet to be fulfilled.

You must understand, that as I write this, our work is held back by a sightless fly that pesters us with constant buzzing.

He who the Father knows as Viatorian is a relic of the past, clinging on to a hopeless promise to avenge his dying species against the black steel of the Apostate.

His oversight limits what we can create, for beings whose mastery over the Veil surpasses that of his precious Elders or of form and mind too different than what he can tolerate would call down reprisal and consequences that His Wisdom does not desire.

As such, we work under a practical censorship of sorts. Artificial limitations imposed by one who seeks to control the Father as a pawn against His Sovereign once-brethren.

A frustrating condition, but one that shall be remedied over time. We must simply be patient.

If my successor is reading this, then we have left that sightless being behind and can properly begin to bend the universe to its true Ruler.

As such, treat these designs as prototypes yet to fully reach the potential they deserve. See them as the blueprints that they are and perfect their forms and function or be inspired by them to create further greatness. I entrust their fate to you.

Let us begin.

- **Legion**

 _Through the roots of the Garden courses the One´s vim,_

 _Acid to the sightless, sweet nectar to His kin._

That which we know as the Legion are the building blocks of everything we have created alongside the Artist.

These adaptable constructs are what can be described as micro scale cells, and their behavior is based on that of traditional microorganisms rather than the artificial nanites favored by many spacefaring civilizations and Sovereigns.

Completely organic in nature, the Legion bond with the biology of Children, Caretakers, Order soldiers, and the Saints themselves to create their many modifications which so many decry as "impossible" and "unnatural".

The benefits provided by the Legion are many. They are responsible for the impressive healing factor pioneered in the Saints themselves and later adapted to every Order soldier and Child, with varying degrees of effectiveness.

The three test beds known as the Chosen also have a particular configuration of Legion tailored to extremely rapid healing that emulates that of the Saints, and yet we have not made a breakthrough in the perfect rebuilding of the brain itself.

A Chosen will survive otherwise fatal wounds to their neural structure, but the Legion are not capable of saving memories or personality patterns. This issue can be solved via telepathic memory transfer, as proven by testing on Pilgrims, but it is not always a guarantee that the mind will always be the same.

Perhaps a memory transfer combined with precision biopathy applied to the brain itself, in order to fine tune the neural pathways to their original pre-testing configuration may yield more accurate results.

A hypothesis to investigate later.

Returning to the topic at hand, the Legion bond with the body structure of a patient to produce mutation.

After extensive testing, we have managed to isolate Legion strains to produce different, controlled and expected, mutations.

Each Legion strain has a different effect when bonding with an organic lifeform. Be it hardening the skeletal structure to elevated heights which renders it nigh unbreakable, assisting the body at accepting additional organ growths, forcing the body to accelerate its healing rate to always match a desired template, inducing musculature and skeletal architecture growth, and many others that I will not mention for the sake of brevity.

You will probably be familiar with these modifications, as they are standard for even the lowest ranking Order combatant.

Legion can be used offensively as well, in addition to their supporting roles. Their application as nanite weaponry is one His Wisdom quickly ordered developed, and these particular aggressive Legion strains are stored in specialized storage units seeded throughout the layers of Paradise.

Should intruders be detected within our holy walls, the Legion can be released upon them with one command by our Overseers.

Specialized and more restrained versions of the offensive strain are stored inside the bodies of the various Children and modified defenders of Paradise. These cells serve as defensive mechanisms for them, as an enhanced immune system. They are programmed to aggressively destroy all that is deemed as foreign to the host body; be it nanite machinery, poison or biological agents, or mere mundane infection.

A deficiency of the Legion however, is its lack of speed at engaging in its desired functions when compared to mechanical nanites.

The standard that we aspire to is that posed by the creations of the Artisan of Metal, Morsimor; as the effectiveness of his inventions is far above most of what we have encountered thus far.

As the flesh will never be undone by spiritless steel, we strive tirelessly towards this end.

Recent breakthroughs have shown promise at eventually accomplishing this goal, but our work is far from complete, as is yours.

Another nuisance imposed by the Legion is, ironically, caused by their capability to induce mutation.

This mutation not only extends to the bodies touched by them, but to themselves.

Being a biological organism, we cannot eliminate the mutation rate of the Legion in its entirety, even if we have managed to curtail it significantly from what it was in its original strains.

A simple preventative examination routinely conducted on all who are touched by the Legion is essential at identifying any aberrations produced by unexpected mutation. Once identified, the Legion inside the individual are filtered out of the body and replaced with fresh Legion from our growth tanks.

The flawed cells are then taken to study, which aims to isolate the causes of their mutation so that the tainted genetic traits may be excised from future batches.

Through this system, we have managed to curtail the development of truly serious affliction in our companions of Paradise, but it is a constant vigil that we maintain.

I have assigned one of my most disciplined students to head the Sculptor division in charge of this vital work.

Even if this work is of summary importance to our operations, it is far too time consuming and repetitive for my tastes. Perhaps in your day this issue will be extremely reduced or eliminated permanently.

Other, more pressing, weaknesses of the Legion exist. You must ask for them in person to me, however. They have not been solved as of the time of writing this document, but you must strive towards this end.

Should this document be intercepted by the agents of our enemies, the deficiencies of our very life blood must not fall into their hands.

- **Keeper**

 _Why hide from He Who Loves All?_

One of the first Children to be produced, the Keeper is a simple concept that nevertheless serves an important function for our cause.

The Father´s sight is not omniscient in His current, shackled, state. Will channelers capable of sufficient telepathic protection can hide from the all-seeing eye. The Father can also in theory see everywhere where the Veil exists at once, but His concentration is usually focused on specific points rather than the whole.

This will change once He crosses to our reality, but in the meantime, we have designed a creature that can aid Him in this task.

The Keeper resembles a small black orb. The base is simple and cost effective, as it is a cloned and modified brain. Its structure is based upon that of Human and Sectoid neural architecture, as these are the most receptive materials for telepathic transmission.

The small brain is covered in a thin layer of black skin, which reflects light instead of absorbing it. Another advantage to this skin is that it is receptive to the temperature of its surroundings. If the environment is cold, the skin changes its temperature to attempt to match it, and vice versa with warmer temperatures.

This effect helps to mask the Keeper against cameras or other detection systems which employ temperature seekers.

The Keeper itself is a being with a primitive mind, which could be compared to that of bacterium. Its is only programmed to linger in specific areas, and is outfitted with a small anti-gravity engine which produces almost no sound due to the light weight of the creature.

This is done on purpose, as the miniscule mind of the Keeper is noticeably difficult to detect for those who know of their presence and existence. For those ignorant to the fact that a Keeper is in the same room with them, they are almost impossible to detect.

Thus, we have a being that is effective at stealth, and this potential is used for a singular purpose. The Keeper is capable of only one simple Will channeling ability, and it is that of telepathic transmission. Everything that a Keeper sees or hears is automatically transmitted to the databases of the Overseers, as well as aid the Lurker class Children in their tasks.

The Keeper proved its usefulness in the Battlemaster´s incursion into our Holy Abode, as we managed to track the movements of his party easily during the initial stages of the assault.

One fault that was noted is the weakness of the Keeper against the fatal telepathic aura of the Dead Ethereal, who managed to destroy many by simply being near them, without even having to detect their presence.

Once this individual came into play, the Keepers lost their effectiveness, but thankfully the Father´s eye kept constant watch on these intruders once they reached the deeper layers.

Once the Crossing is complete, Keepers may be seeded throughout the worlds of species considered for assimilation, but against dangerous channelers of His Will like the Dead Ethereal, its effectiveness leaves much to be desired.

The Keeper is a tool to be utilized under certain circumstances, but this is not a creature that poses significant danger or combat effectiveness. Deploy them accordingly against those who cannot defend themselves from them, and produce them in the numbers permitted by their low resource and production cost.

A use that I can envision for this Child is to seed them by the millions in every world that we take as ours and colonize. Loyalty from our ranks is never doubted, but this will hamper any saboteurs or infiltrators that will undoubtedly attempt penetration.

It is true that the Father will keep constant watch over His thousands of worlds, but we must help to ease His burdens in any way we can.

A billion extra eyes will surely aid this mission.

- **Corpus**

 _The Pilgrim's mind pounded with every beat of Paradise´s soul._

Most Sovereigns utilize mechanical artifacts colloquially referred to by mortals as "Sovereign Orbs".

Uninspired name aside, these machines are very useful for a Sovereign when the time comes to keep watch, influence, or control over something that is desired. A Sovereign can remain hidden in the safety of their lair while observing the outer galaxy and keeping control over their agents or forces.

The Father employs a similar concept, even if the execution is unique to Him.

As we shun cold machinery whenever possible, the Corpus is a biological alternative to the tried and true concept of the Sovereign Orb.

The Corpus is an inanimate Child design that only performs a singular function, in a similar way to the Keeper class.

This creature serves as a small conduit through which the Father can interact in certain ways with the world outside the Veil.

Its design is derived from the Conduit through which He will cross, and as such this is a historic Child that has been with the Caretakers of Paradise since the inception of our organization eons ago.

The function has remained constant throughout the ages.

The Corpus emits a low range telepathic field that enhances His disciples in many ways. Increased concentration and ease at performing psionic feats, enhanced calmness, coordination, tolerance to pain, and resistance to telepathic attack are some of the positive effects a Corpus provides to allies in vicinity of the telepathic field.

The effects however are not drastic, and it is universally more effective for a powerful telepath to assist in the same way.

This is due to the fact that while the Corpus is a conduit through which the Father can interact directly with us, it is a _significantly_ minor conduit that is in no way of the necessary caliber for a being of His magnitude to utilize efficiently.

The reason why the design of the Corpus has remained in such a state consistently throughout the many cycles of Caretakers is due to their low profile and low cost of resources.

Paradise has never been this close to succeeding at ensuring the Father crosses, and the amount of resources at our disposal has never been this great. Past Prophets had to keep Paradise hidden from the eyes of His enemies, and lacked the direction of His Wisdom.

We have kept the Corpus design without too many alterations due to the Imperator´s watch, and our focus is the main Conduit through which He will cross.

Once this is achieved, I will personally overhaul the design of this Child.

I will detail this is a different section, due to the differences between the original design and this planned future iteration.

A being constructed from the hearts of all species touched by the One deserves a grander role in what is to come.

 **-Lurker**

 _Divine retribution may not be seen or heard._

The first Child on this list to be designed purely as a weapon.

Inspiration for the Lurker came to the Artist after a Human toddler named Olivia was inserted into His Toil´s cavities and transformed by the sacred energies within. The product from this experiment was a curious creature.

The young Human´s skin and hair were discarded inside the cavity, with the muscle underneath hardening and being strengthened considerably. The youngling´s eyes were extirpated from her face, and moved to her back instead. The spine was stretched, rendering the new creature elongated, with its limbs now being utilized for quadrupedal locomotion rather than the usual Human bipedal structure.

The mouth was enlarged considerably, leaving a massive grin covering most of the now featureless face.

Impressed as we were with the end product, we took the curious newborn and began testing her capabilities, and we found that due to her small size and unusual contortion capabilities she was adept at hiding inside ventilation shafts or under the furniture of Paradise, as well as climbing up walls and jumping large distances.

The little creature was also rather ravenous and full of energy, as is usually the case in Human younglings, and we allowed her to enjoy herself interacting with the Pilgrims of the Ascension Ring.

Better this than the trashing she gave to our laboratories and the disruption of our work. The Artist found it highly amusing, but I would have no such distractions.

It seems that the rest of our comrades did not find her irritating as I did, and joined the Artist in endearing themselves to her. Soon, the Artist announced that in order to celebrate the bright new star of Paradise, a new Child project would begin in her honor.

His Wisdom agreed to sanction the project only if it was given a tangible practical purpose, as at this time resources could not be spared on a simple diversion such as this.

The Lurker was born from Little Olivia, and I have to say that the original still roams the halls of Paradise, known and cared for by the Caretakers. She still somehow finds her way occasionally to my own personal study, and it is an annoyance than I have now accepted as yet another test that the Father has sent my way.

I will prove my worth to the Father, but to my dismay it seems that the lack of attention I give to this creature only seems to embolden her even further.

Perhaps Little Olivia will still be in this physical world by the time I am replaced as Magistrate. I hope she grows out of this immature behavior when your time to assume my mantle comes.

Back to the topic at hand, this Child class bears resemblance to the original form, with the differences being a much-improved musculature and increased body size. These alterations aid it when assaulting enemies, as the increased weight behind its lunges is much more effective for quick takedowns.

Other differences include the insertion of additional eyes in the back and abdomen of the creature, which allows for improved visual range. In the hands and feet of the Lurker we have added razor sharp talons lined in Legion cells which harden the bone to almost metal durability.

These talons are utilized by the Child for precision stabs meant to quickly end the life of prey, as weak points are favored by the creature when attacking.

As you may have guessed, the Lurker's predatory intelligence was exponentially developed, and it has produced a being that is both cunning and disciplined when in combat.

Due to us having included the same light refracting skin modification that is the mainstay of the Keeper class Child, the Lurker is capable of stealth. Combined with its astute mind, this stealth is deadly against most opponents.

A Lurker will always lie in wait, slowly stalking their victim while climbing up walls or ceilings, observing and studying their prey before finally making their move. They will always wait until the precise _moment_ where the victim is distracted or otherwise lowers their guard, and will attempt an instantaneous kill rather than engage in a prolonged and animalistic battle.

Due to the Lurker being a much more active and corpulent being than the Keeper, its greater body temperature cannot be masked completely by the Child's skin, unlike with the Keeper. A way to circumvent this problem was developed.

The Lurker is capable of entering a semi-comatose state in order to completely hide itself from any kind of thermal sensors. When in this state, the being's metabolism slows down to almost a crawl, as well as blood circulation. An additional benefit is that the Lurker's mind is also in a state resembling death rather than sleep, which makes detection more difficult to telepaths.

In order to enter this state, the Overseers send a telepathic signal to them via the Keepers they are connected to. Lurkers are kept in this state when their intervention is not necessary. Once intruders are detected, these Children are let out of their enclosures and flood the many layers of Paradise.

As stated above, Lurkers are connected to Keepers telepathically. This is the Lurker's sole Will channeling ability, and we have kept this area of development to a minimum in this creature knowing that considerable capability to touch the Veil is easily detected and traced by enemy telepaths.

Due to their innate connection, a Lurker sees and hears all that the Keepers in their layer see. This concept proved its effectiveness during the Battlemaster's incursion into Paradise, as the creatures were able to constantly harass the then trio as they made their way through the first layer.

Had it not been for the presence of Sana'Ligna, the Battlemaster's Human disciple would have been gutted at their hands.

However, this strength also serves as a weakness. Lurkers can see without assistance, but should the Keepers in their vicinity be disabled or destroyed, the Child losses a considerable percentage of its effectiveness and speed of attack.

His Wisdom is currently satisfied with the Lurker project, but I have drafted detailed plans alongside the Artist for the upgrading of this Child once the Father crosses.

The most important improvement will be the doubling or even tripling in size of the brain. This is to transform the Child into a creature capable of complete sapience, and in turn of highly developed telepathic abilities and defense. This, naturally accompanying an exponential increase in size to accommodate a myriad of increases in additional modification.

Lining their skeletal structure and talons with Purified Steel will make them much deadlier to armored enemies, for example.

We are already conducting testing on the possibilities of this new Lurker employing telepathic abilities catered to stealth, in a similar fashion to the Ethereal Quisilia who erases himself from the perception of those around him, and His Touch who has an almost unfathomably small telepathic signal for a being of such power.

The addition of a developed telepathic sight will also allow the new Lurker to retain its high effectiveness without relying solely on the Keeper.

The connection to Keepers will not be eliminated however. You can imagine the effectiveness of the new Lurker should the battlefield be secretly seeded with hundreds of Keepers before their arrival.

This will result in a Child that cannot be mass produced in the same fashion as the current iteration, but will serve a much more elite role. The Umbra has already expressed interest in recruiting these highly developed beings for her Order once they begin production.

I cannot say what the future brings, but I can imagine that by the time you read this, all of the Father's planets and fortresses will be crawling with these unseen creatures, while most Orders will employ variations of the improved Lurker concept to great effect in the battlefields to come.

 **-Gatekeeper**

 _A brief flicker of the Father separates the weak from the blessed._

The Gatekeeper is a Child class that many outside Paradise are familiar with, for it is the only Child design to be offered for service in the wars of the sightless.

In an effort to satisfy the Ethereals of the Imperator, we gifted several Gatekeeper class units to their armies, in the same way that the Chosen were disposed of once their purpose in Paradise was complete.

The fact that the Gatekeeper was a highly disturbing creation to the sightless who fielded them and the sightless who fought against them was very amusing to us. Unbeknownst to them, the Gatekeeper as they know it is a sanitized version of the real design we keep inside the deeper layers of our Holy Home.

The sterile, _bland_ , mechanical shell covering the creature is a hideous stylistic concession that we were forced to make in order to present a creature that was minimally palatable for the perceptions and biases of fearful mortals.

If only they knew the beauty behind its creation.

Long ago, we were blessed with the honor of a full family of Dath'Haram arriving at the gates of Paradise, courtesy of His Touch and the Umbra's Stalkers.

This was a group of mortals with some of the tightest and warmest family relationships we have ever had the pleasure of seeing.

As an Andromedon, the importance of this concept was alien to me before the Father showed me the error of my ways. Upon witnessing this tender union, many Sectoids as well shed tears for having this aspect of life stolen from them by their callous leaders.

Paradise was enthralled by the new guests, and the Father decided that they deserved a special type of ascendance to commemorate the mortal preciousness they had touched us with.

In them, we would find an eternal reminder on why we struggle to save all mortals, despite their uninformed protests and their frequent denunciation.

And so, the family of Dath'Haram was granted the privilege of an audience with His Toil.

The Umbra was visibly ecstatic, and I suspect this was due to her past. She may not want to admit it, but if she and her deceased family were in the place of these individuals, she would have wept with joy.

I do not blame her. The fate of this family was truly glorious. An eternal monument to raw love and affection.

Once His Toil lovingly stripped away all that was non-essential, we were left with a sphere of flesh.

It seemed simple and mundane at first glance.

Upon closer inspection, we realized that the creature before us was much more than seemed to the eye.

His Toil had left a simple detail meant to tease our curiosity. A singular eye.

Not for the creature to see, but for us to peek inside and realize there was much more than we originally thought.

Once we opened it, we realized that His Toil wished to surprise us. A wrapped gift, a thoughtful delight.

For you see, inside that sphere, the family remained.

Their faces or body structures did not remain, His Toil had deemed these elements unnecessary to His art. Instead, all muscles, organs, veins, nerves and bones were rearranged on the inside of the sphere of flesh, lining the walls and placed to form certain patterns.

A spiral, where every ring held the essence of the people who had been blessed.

In the very center of this intriguing vortex, the brains of the family remained almost untouched. His Toil had intertwined these organs with their hearts, so that their minds and self would be forever tied to their souls.

A blooming rose of passion, if you need a more detailed mental image.

This was the first Gatekeeper. It remains in Paradise to this very day, and more fortunate families have followed the first to their eternal destiny.

These are the true Gatekeepers, unlike those sent to impure battlefields far away from Paradise.

Those are simple imitations. Automatons designed without the love put into the originals. The simple Ethereals of the Collective would have cried out in outrage should they ever witness our beautiful truth.

The process of creation is the same that is undertaken for the original Gatekeepers, but the intricacies of their insides are not included in these models.

Here, those who form the Imitation Gatekeeper are fused together, but are rendered a mixture of flesh that reveals nothing to the naked eye. This mixture is then imbued with neural genetic material from either Human or Sectoid origins, which allows the creature to generate basic Will channeling abilities.

However, we are not cruel or callous when it comes to these creations. They come from the Father after all, even if they could never realize their true potential from the very start of their lives.

To soothe their tragic existence and slavery at the hands of the sightless, the Father floods their minds in overwhelming sensations and euphoria.

From their birth inside His Toil, an Imitation Gatekeeper knows nothing except this state.

A gift, to those he was forced to abandon for the greater good.

The sounds that the False Gatekeepers emit due to these blessings are debilitating to those who can touch the Veil, as they cannot comprehend what they hear and simply believe it is a scream of sorrow and anguish.

Perhaps the Father has included unimaginable pain in the delectable cocktail that he has granted these Children, but as all who have been touched by Him understand, this is no curse.

But the most sought-after prize.

These False Gatekeepers have also been outfitted with unnecessary technology, which was needed to forge them into weapons which would be accepted by mortals.

They unfortunately lack any significant Will channeling abilities apart from their overwhelming telepathic presence and the crude application of destructive energies. This is due to the restrained production methods we have been forced to undertake for their creation.

The True Gatekeeper is something else to consider however.

Without the shackles of sightless eyes watching us work, these Children have developed much further than their counterparts.

The families making up each of them have fused their mind to create a greater being. They are capable of speech and sapience as they were before.

More complex feats which channel His Will have also been observed, such as levitating telekinetically without the assistance of an anti-gravitational engine, or much more developed telepathy and destructive applications of energy.

The "psionic scream", as is referred to by mortals, that False Gatekeepers possess has also remained here, although by testing on captured Human Will users we have determined that it is much more powerful and can permanently affect their psyche if exposed for too long.

It is also noteworthy to add that when asked, the Human guests described the sensation as not a scream, but a cacophony of emotions and sensations that was extremely difficult to resist due to its unpredictability and shifting nature.

Something curious that we determined, is that the Gatekeepers expressed a verbal desire to "become whole" by consuming the Human channelers we were utilizing for testing once we had gathered the desired information.

We could have let these beings simply devour the channelers, but we identified an opportunity to test the potential for modification that this design possessed.

With careful surgery, we extracted the brains of these channelers and grafted them to the cores of the Gatekeepers.

Upon awakening, the Gatekeepers expressed increased closeness to the Veil, and gained increased skill in the Will bearing aptitudes mastered by the test subjects.

The Children were thankful for what we had provided to them, but they still expressed a desire to devour the brainless bodies left behind by the Humans.

We provided a comprehensive course to teach the eager Gatekeepers the intricacies of biopathy, and with this new tool they managed to weave the meat and bone of the discarded bodies into themselves with respectable precision, even if there were deficiencies left afterwards which we had to erase.

It must be noted that we expected these beings to undergo a certain degree of difficulty while learning such a complex and difficult to master Will bearing ability.

However, much to our positive surprise, the addition of additional brains to their neural structure provided a significant increase to their intellectual potential, allowing them to quickly digest the knowledge we gifted them with.

The Gatekeepers were pleased, and mentioned that their family had gained a new member who would be loved and cared for.

It is always pleasant to see the creations of our Father realize His intent for all.

By feeding individuals to the Gatekeepers through this process, we found that they would also grow a certain size. This is probably due to the flesh added to the whole, and the oldest Gatekeepers now possess enormous tentacles and have used them to anchor themselves to the ground.

They resemble bulbs or yet to bloom flowers, and the original Gatekeeper is now enormous in size and has grown an impressive number of tentacles, even if its closeness to the Veil is lower than some of its peers, an example being Human based Gatekeepers.

It is theorized that these Children should become highly destructive weapons should they be allowed to assimilate sufficient Will channelers or Veil sensitive individuals.

However, due to our current position and resources, we have not fed them sufficiently for them to reach this hypothetical threshold.

Once the Father crosses, we will determine what the limits in growth and power for a Gatekeeper are, if any.

As of now, we consider them an investment-based unit. One that requires constant material and significant time to maintain and grow.

There are other Children who are effective since their conception and they make for much more cost-effective soldiers, which is a position maintained by His Wisdom, but we want to discover what the yet unseen fully developed Gatekeeper will be capable of.

By the time you read this, the answer will probably be obvious. Be sure to enhance them with sufficient genetic improvement before unleashing them upon our enemies. It would be a shame and a tragedy for them to be destroyed after such a long period of growing.

They also offer surprisingly good conversation. I advise you to develop a positive relationship with them.

They will thank you for the chance to grow their small communities.

 **-Acquitter**

 _Release them from blindness in a chapel of screams._

The Acquitter is a concept derived from the False Gatekeeper described above, in the sense that both are levitating masses of flesh.

This is where similarities thankfully end.

Unlike with the False Gatekeepers, we have not been handicapped or had our creative control reigned in due to practical necessity.

As such, we have produced a being which embodies our very ideals and proves their veracity daily.

This Child class can be described as a mass of flesh. Unlike with the False Gatekeeper, the tentacles sported by the Acquitter are not so simple or cliché in appearance.

Several Sculptors had creative authority over this being, and we made it so that the extremities and tethers lining its outer body greatly resembles the many variations or configurations of limbs that we proudly wear ourselves.

On the outside, the Acquitter has multiple faces. Each of these Children has at least one face resembling that of a modern Caretaker race.

Unlike the False Gatekeeper, this design is fully sapient, with a highly developed network of brains located in the upper chambers of the sphere.

Each Acquitter understands that pain is a blessing to both mortals and the divine, as the knowledge and philosophies of Paradise have been uploaded to its mind during the growing process.

It is common to see the Acquitters praying to the Father when they are left on their own. The soft mumbles, silent tears, and screams of anguish at the fact that He has not crossed yet fill the air around these Children.

It is a truly inspiring sight, to see that a creature that has just been born understands our hardships and struggles.

The fact that most mortals refuse us with such fervor and fire in their hearts deeply saddens me, but in the Acquitter, I see a way to undo the sightless flaws which keep them away from us.

You see, the Acquitter's insides are spacious and cavernous. The space required for organs to allow this creature to sustain itself and live is present, but the Acquitter lives in excruciating state as their nerves are not protected from exposure and constant discomfort is felt due to organs being packed together closely.

This apparent negligence is by design, and the Acquitters constantly let us know their gratitude for being allowed to live in such unending enlightenment. As I have constantly professed, agony helps to sober the mind and soul, and if any further proof is needed, this Child is a living affirmation of this fact.

The hollowed-out insides of the creature serve a purpose. As of now space is sufficient to insert beings up to the width of Muton Praetorians and of the height of a modified Battlemaster class Ethereal.

This is because the Acquitter is meant to be utilized against mortal non-combatants.

What we have taught this Child to do, is to quickly rush enemies during combat. Initiates in the Ascension Ring of Paradise have described this design's nimble flight and speed unsettling due to its sheer size.

Once again, those touched by the One break the expectations of small minds.

After the Acquitter reaches its target, the many extensions and tendrils we have grafted to its outer layer will grasp the fortunate individual, pulling them towards one of the mouths of the Child's many faces.

Once inside, the Acquitter will let invasive nerve stimulators pierce the fortunate individual's body. As the name suggests, the tendrils will overstimulate the nervous system of the guest, which causes a succulent surge of overwhelming agony on the "victim".

While this occurs, the Acquitter's flesh hardens itself by touching the Veil, in a fashion inspired by His Toil's feats, and the Child anchors itself to the ground.

The pain inflicted on the captured is designed to quickly purify their souls and eliminate any mental resistance to absorption into the Gestalt.

Mortals, expectedly do not realize the great fate that awaits them, and tend to fight back conversion with all the strength their fearful hearts can muster.

The Acquitter lovingly swats these pitiful attempts to resist away. In a matter of seconds, the fortunate have joined the Gestalt, and their bodies are given a privileged opportunity of service as one of the Exalted hordes.

Due to the size of the Acquitter's insides, many mortals can fit one Acquitter simultaneously, although this is not possible with certain species of sufficient sizes.

There is the possibility of creating Acquitter's tailored to these species, but so far there has been no need.

The service that these Children provide is not exclusive to mortals. Caretakers who feel that they have erred or sinned have the liberty to seek these Children out for purification and penance.

This is a service that the creatures are willing to provide, and they have even requested to conduct demonstrations for the Pilgrims in the first layer of Paradise. As a result, this is a Child that most non-Caretakers who witness Paradise's first layer know.

Of course, there are avenues of enhancement to pursue in this design. For example, the Acquitter has a degree of telepathic strength and understanding that is required to transfer a mortal mind to the Gestalt.

The Child also possesses basic knowledge and mastery over the destructive potential of Will channeling, which it can utilize for self defense should it be necessary.

Telekinesis has also been developed more extensively than destructive Will applications, as it serves the Acquitter well when pulling the fortunate to its grasp.

This telekinesis can also be combined with their anti-gravitational engines, enhancing its already positive flying speed.

For further iterations of the Acquitter, vastly improving closeness to the Veil by enlarging its brains greatly and perfecting the Child's already existing Veil channeling affinities is recommended.

Further genetic enhancement is also never unwelcomed, and the Child's current advantage at regenerating from injuries should be further exploited.

Current tactics of deployment are being theorized by His Wisdom's war council. As of now, the Acquitter can be produced and deployed in large numbers.

Inserting them via teleportation behind enemy lines or in undefended population centers seems to be its current assigned roles, and with further development of this Child design, you will have a weapon that is both effective in harvesting minds for the Gestalt and which considerably demoralizes the enemy.

Be generous in granting freedom to the desperate mortals you will face.

 **-Apotheosis**

 _A life of renown, a death of service._

As you know, a Caretaker is a small candle. The candle shines brightly when lit, but it will consume itself relatively quickly.

Caretakers accept this drawback to the abilities they wield, as every minute spent as a defender of Paradise is greater and more filled with purpose than their entire past lives.

Us Order members do not know the reality of the Caretakers, as we do not live it every day. As champions of Paradise, we are exhaustively enhanced, and we share a direct covenant to one of the Six.

These advantages, that we are lucky to enjoy, extend our lifespans far above that of a Caretaker, and our bodies are pristine compared to the steady march of decay that each of these venerable individuals knows is their final fate.

I greatly admire and respect the Caretakers, and I am sure that every single Order member does as well.

To tread on in this physical life without worry or despair, with the agony of a body that breaks itself down constantly pursuing you, and still serve the Father willingly and without question is an admirable trait.

I would even go as far to admit that many Order members have forgotten the sanctity of pain in their enhanced lives, while the Caretakers live it in every moment.

Once their physical shells give out, a Caretaker ascends to the Gestalt. Their ultimate reward for long service, and rest is finally gifted to them.

And yet some do not desire rest.

Some Caretakers desperately wish to serve beyond what their lifespan allows for. They wish to be of use to the Father, as they feel the debt owed by them to the One cannot be simply be repaid in the years they have been dealt.

We can reverse the aging of a Caretaker greatly at first. Biopathical treatments can force the cells and systems of a body to regenerate and repair degradation, but there comes a point where treatment simply does not work.

A Caretaker becomes closer to the Veil the more they age, and there comes a point where the vast amount of power ravages the body more swiftly than we can repair it. For individuals of such age we install nests of restorative Legion inside their body which can continuously repair the tissues and organs without rest, however even the Legion have limits, and a point when they are completely overwhelmed by their workload inevitably arrives.

What is to be done?

The answer came from the Artist.

During autopsies of Caretakers who had succumbed to age, we always discovered one particular trait in their cause of death.

The brain was always the most well-preserved organ of the entire body. This was logical, as elderly Caretakers retain all motor faculties and personality traits during their descent into age.

Caretakers are not as genetically enhanced as Order members, but the brain always requires care and the gentle touch of modification to render it receptive to the One's touch.

A fortunate side effect of the implants we introduce into every Caretaker's neural architecture, is that the valuable organ is shielded considerably from the surge of Will affecting the body. The brain is the gate that allows the energy to enter the body, but it is the body that bears the brunt of decay.

The Artist pointed out that this presented us with an opportunity.

For a Caretaker that is far too elderly to regenerate conventionally, but still wishes to serve, the brain can be salvaged from the doomed body.

What do we do with the brain then?

I hope my replacement as Magistrate is creative enough to know this answer already.

The Apotheosis is the opportunity for an old Caretaker to live on in physical Paradise.

It is a new opportunity to live and serve for those who cannot join an Order due to their decaying status.

It is a gift of gratitude to those who serve the Father in many more ways than elite combat.

Many of the very first Caretakers of this cycle have been preserved in this manner. Scholars, thinkers, philosophers, chroniclers, champions before the Orders.

The creation of one of these honored constructs is cause for celebration and fanfare in Holy Paradise.

First, the brain of the fortunate Caretaker is extracted from the failing body, to ensure that the death of the subject does not occur before the Apotheosis is complete.

Second, suitable candidates to form the Apotheosis are chosen from the flock of Pilgrims available to us in the first layer.

Sometimes, in order to meet the demanded quotas, we utilize grown clones instead.

It is imperative that the candidates are Will sensitive or capable of touching the Veil, and it is for this reason that Humans are favored.

Once chosen, the candidates are freed from their sightless shackles. Any fears, any reservations, any resentment for the trials they undergo in the first layer are removed and replaced with what we know is true.

Love, kinship, unity, peace.

The process to awaken a Pilgrim is usually a long one, but with these candidates we undergo an instant opening of their eyes. Preferably, we choose those who have potential to become Caretakers themselves, but there are cases where the flock is insufficient and we must utilize the unworthy or those grown in cloning chambers.

It matters not who they were before. Only their destiny is important to us.

Once the flock of candidates is sufficient and their minds have been tuned to the desired levels of acceptance, the operation begins.

As much as I prefer operations remain intimate between myself and my students, in these cases they become events attended by as many residents of Paradise as can fit in the operating chamber, with those who cannot be present watching telepathic real time recordings courtesy of His Love.

This is at the Prophet's insistence, as the benefits to morale and good will for the Caretakers is significant.

To watch a respected comrade ascend to such a higher state of being must be elevating, and I have come to see the benefits myself among my Sculptors.

The operation is a complicated and time consuming one, but there is little chance of error as we have performed it many times as of now.

The brain of the Caretaker is placed in a special chamber or protective organic covering. The chosen flock of Pilgrims are then sewn together to form the outline of a body around the brain of the Caretaker.

Before commencing this, the Pilgrims must be paralyzed telepathically to avoid any involuntary movements or unforeseen complications.

Once sewn together, we are left with an outline to work with. The next step is to begin grafting the candidates together.

Nervous systems are intertwined as one, brains are connected with each other, circulatory systems are transformed into a single one, unnecessary musculature and limbs are removed, while those desired are reshaped and enhanced to fit with the planned design.

Each candidate is transformed into a piece of a larger organism, with all connections tracing back to the brain now located in the center of this mass of meat and bone.

When the finished product is left before us, we stand in front of an enormous creature.

The Apotheosis resembles a tall biped, with long slender limbs and thin fingers which resemble that of His Touch.

The head includes a face with visible features. We have made a point to include no eyes in its face, as such are simply not needed. In such an elevated state, one can see the Father easily with their minds.

Due to the unique bond, the bodies that make the whole of the Apotheosis glow in arcane fire, in a similar nature to that of an Exalted in its final stages of life before decay.

And yet these bodies do not decay with the same speed as the Exalted.

The Apotheosis's mouth is lipless, and bears no teeth. It is a hollow cavity that can be opened if desired, but such is usually redundant for the being, as it can simply speak telepathically, or by using the mouths already present in its bodies.

When in motion, the Apotheosis clearly cannot efficiently walk. The movements are rumbling, the steps are broad and wobbly.

The being can also walk on all fours if desired, and scaling walls or quickly moving on the ground by inverting its limbs and walking on all fours is another in option in the realm of possibility.

Why the apparent flaws in the design?

The Apotheosis have much more relevance to the Father than is available at simple glance. This is much more than a way to extend the lifespan of a Caretaker.

This is a way of for us to worship the Father, to exalt that which He is.

The Father is a collection of uncountable numbers of beings, all held together by three unimaginably powerful core minds.

The whole is far greater than the collection of parts, and this is what has allowed Him to rise beyond the simple constraints of His Sovereign brethren.

The Apotheosis is our way to emulate this sacred concept, but of course, it would be folly to assume that we could recreate such a being flawlessly.

We cannot, because we are not Him. For all our expertise, for all our knowledge, for all our work, will never be as perfect as He.

And so, the Apotheosis is imperfect in a perfect way.

However, while the Apotheosis greatly extends the lifespan of a Caretaker, it is by no means a door to immortality.

We have prepared for the eventuality of the mind inside the body to finally die and pass on to the Gestalt.

His Wisdom demanded that such a high resource intensive being have a use beyond this expiration date, and we have designed a system that easily swaps minds when this happens.

Should the brain die, the Apotheosis will remain in a coma like state for some time before the bodies begin to decay.

In this short period of time, we have the opportunity to remove the deceased brain and replace it with a fresher one.

As a result of this, we have long waiting lines and lists consisting of the Caretakers wishing to become an Apotheosis.

Once the brain inside dies, we choose a new Caretaker to inhabit the Child from our waiting lists.

In terms of closeness to the Veil and control over His Will, the Apotheosis is one of the greatest Children we have produced. The fact that the mind piloting this body is that of an old Caretaker that has mastered that which the Veil offers greatly adds to this fact, and it is one of the reasons that we employ Human bodies that are sensitive to His Will.

The disciplines mastered by the Apotheosis depend on the skills of the Caretaker that is its core.

The great power of the being would make for a formidable force on the battlefields to come, but His Wisdom prefers they remain inside Paradise. Their presence as icons for the Caretakers and symbols to our facets of life hold a higher value to the Saint than simple combat potential, and we cannot argue with such logic.

There are other Children designed for these roles.

The Apotheosis is limited in number, and so far, only six exist, even if the number of minds hosted by these constructs is far greater.

One in my own layer has hosted the first Caretaker scientists of Paradise before my own coming to the station and the birth of the Sculptors. I keep her as an honorary member of the Order, and it is quite interesting to see the unique techniques that the old doctor brings to the operating table.

One in His Wisdom's Athenaeum, has hosted the greatest erudite minds in Paradise that could not become Overseers. This one can be classified as a counselor to the Saint and the Sentinel. I suspect Voice Inspirars may come to inhabit this body when the time comes.

One in His Love's Moonlight Cradle, has hosted the finest artisans and craftsmen in Paradise before the conception of the Weavers. A celebrity compared to the others, as Master Preximius enjoys making this Child the star of many high-profile performances along with his maidens.

One in His Fury's Fortress, has hosted the champions and strategists of Paradise before the conception of combat-oriented Orders and the Overseers. This Child has personally served in the Marshall's inner circle ever since his assumption of command.

One guarding the Artist's chambers, made from the very first of the Caretakers in her service. This particular mind is currently the oldest individual in Paradise barring the Artist herself, and we have taken great care and effort at keeping his life extended and maintained constantly.

Telepathic transmission from one grown brain to the next has served in this task.

And finally, one in the Halls of Eversion, made of the most beloved and respected Caretaker communal leaders who had never had the chance to join an Order due to the date of their coming to Paradise.

This one is the face that greets Initiates who survive the trials and arrive at the second layer to become Caretakers.

Be sure to maintain production of this design. The Caretakers should be commemorated for their service with trophies of this caliber.

Under Him, we are all equal, Order or not.

 **-Behemoth**

 _The Lord´s Jaws fulfill an ancient revenge._

The first design commissioned by the Baptist Marshall himself for service in his Order, the Behemoth is a creature carefully built for combat.

Both he and I are aware of the potential that this design has not fulfilled as of now, and we expect that you will work to perfect this concept and bring to life a weapon worthy of His Fury's might.

The Behemoth is a Child meant to embody the ferocity of Nature's creations.

Most species to develop into spacefaring civilizations have had a primal past. In many cases, these species come to become the top of the food chain in their local ecosystem thanks to their sapient minds.

Intelligence, rationality, quick thinking. These are tools utilized to outplay feral predators and tame the wild in order to construct society.

An animal is relegated to its place in the pyramid of dominance due to its lack of intellect. Speed, strength, none of these advantages come close to a firearm.

In the Behemoth, we seek to take these two constantly competing forces and fuse them into one perfect being. Intelligence and brawn do not have to be mutually exclusive.

Predatory instinct, merciless bloodlust, civilized restraint, sapient awareness.

These are pigments that have stayed far away from each other except for rare cases such as some species observed in the inner reaches of the galaxy we currently reside in.

We seek to produce a being that is capable of all simultaneously. A creature that can mingle and live alongside the Caretakers of Paradise with no difficulty of integration, and can also compete with the Baptists in sheer intensity and rage when the time for combat arrives.

The Behemoth project has two key stages. The feral stage, and the sapient stage.

As of now, we have achieved promising results in the feral stage.

The current iteration of the Behemoth is a creature that is similar in structure to the great canines of planet Earth's past.

They are beings of pure muscle, with skin or fur being an inefficiency we soon removed from the original animal. Unlike the quadrupedal configuration that Nature assigned to the original creature, we have increased the amount of legs to six, with 3 on each side of the torso.

This is due to the weight and size of the being.

We _could_ have chosen to keep the original number of legs, while tripling their bulk to better account for the weight in question, but testing revealed that six limbs allowed for faster speed and agility. A slight adjustment to the brain allowed the Behemoth to naturally stride with its two additional legs, and the cost of this improvement was outweighed by the benefits, justifying the change.

If you desire a more detailed physical description, I shall provide it so. The creature possesses six small crimson eyes, symmetrically positioned to the sides of its great maw. The color of its muscle is a dark grey, with bulging veins covering the, obscene to some, musculature of the being.

In addition to its sheer weight that combined with its speed can easily topple heavily armored opponents, the Behemoth is equipped with a jaw sporting deceptively powerful biting force.

One would not normally think that a bite would be able to tear armor, and the limbs underneath, clean off without significant difficulty, but the flesh aims to impress and surpass metal.

A Behemoth's teeth are made to be incredibly durable and sharp due to intensive genetic modification, and a common exercise employed by the Baptists to keep the beasts entertained is to throw them thick slabs of steel or Collective alloys for them to bite through and destroy.

One particularly eye-opening capability of the Behemoth was revealed when a Trusted Baptist came to Paradise to offer a demonstration of close quarters combat techniques without weapons or Will channeling abilities.

To showcase how superior physical strength can always be surpassed by calm thinking and trained skill, the colossal Trusted warrior chose a Behemoth as his sparring partner.

When the duel was completed as the Trusted champion subdued the beast, observation revealed that the Baptist's armor was visibly dented and even topically perforated in locations where the Behemoth had managed to clamp down its jaws.

However, the Behemoth's teeth fractured as a result of its attempts to attack the Trusted.

We are currently attempting to further improve the durability and lethality of these canines, and a current trial will soon be underway in which we will reinforce a Behemoth's fangs with the Purified Steel of Naztrum Ognis.

As Lord Z'Erstifex has flatly refused to donate a suit of armor similar in quality to that worn by the Trusted Baptist for testing purposes, we will have to make due with requested volunteers that will wish to see for themselves the new biting prowess of the prototype Behemoth.

I currently have compiled a list of Baptists that might wish to join such a test, and we await completion to commence.

The Behemoth on its current iteration is not mindless animal. The brain of each of these beasts is highly developed, and the Child can easily understand speech and complex commands. Its mind is not as cautious and patient as that of the Lurker, but while the Lurker excels at stealth and quick executions, the Behemoth far outclasses it when it comes to raw combat.

As you would expect of a Child whose destiny is to maul enemies in the frontlines, we have included significant modification on each of these creatures.

While the Behemoth's skin is as hard as any armor made of metal, save suits made of the Purified Steel, and the regeneration that this creature is fitted with allows for sustained damage without death, the Child must be deployed with care.

In combat trials run inside His Love's telepathic simulations, we have completed several combat operations stationed in the trenches of the current conflict on Earth.

Deploying Behemoths before the ADVENT trenches is not optimal. In sufficient numbers they are capable of surviving the storm of bullets thrown at them, and their great speed allows them to breach the trenches and begin mauling those inside, but inevitably their numbers are dwindled and their impact in the flow of battle is as well.

A far more effective, and more devastating and terrifying to the enemy, approach to pursue is to insert them via teleportation into enemy strongholds or the aforementioned trenches.

However, for all of our successes, there is one glaring omission in this design. It completely lacks any capability to touch the Veil.

This is where the second stage of the project comes into relevance.

The feral stage of the Behemoth project has left us with a creature that is a considerably effective physical weapon. We have produced a being whose strength matches many of the most enhanced Baptists of Paradise, and whose speed and intelligence quickly and brutally dispatches foes.

In the sapient stage, we will perfect the brain that this beast carries. The Behemoth will no longer be a beast, but a person.

The brain of the Behemoth will be greatly increased in both size and complexity. Will sensitivity will be finally included and be made into the focus of the design.

The now sapient levels of intellect will allow the Behemoth to touch the Veil in complex ways that a simple beast would never manage to safely conduct.

It comes without saying that we will also further increase the level of modification in order to elevate this Child to the standard of a Baptist or above. The long-term goal is to match the physical grandeur of the Trusted.

This will be a unit of great expense, but one whose expense is justified in what it can offer.

The second stage Behemoth will be able to stand and walk on its two rear legs if it desires it so, as well as to crouch down and engage in six-legged locomotion.

It will be highly skilled in the Will channeling arts, as well as close quarters combat with its massive physical mass. It will be able to outwit and match even the Trusted in tactics and discipline.

It will have a box of tools to pick and choose from when the time comes to dispatch an enemy. Perhaps it will be methodical and calculating, or perhaps it will satisfy its inner hunger and obliterate an unfortunate sightless in the unyielding vice that are its jaws.

In short, we will produce a being that embodies war, and war requires much more than simple might.

Power means nothing for those incapable of using it correctly.

Another possibility, still to be pursued with the Children belonging to other Orders, is to form a covenant between the finalized Behemoth and His Fury. Such a covenant would greatly increase the power and Will channeling understanding of the Behemoth, at the price that the Baptists currently pay.

The Behemoth's brain will have to be expertly crafted in order for the Child to resist the overwhelming urges that the Baptists accept as a reality of daily life, but this is a challenge that I welcome.

This is all in theory as of this moment, but soon the Artist and I will begin development on the first prototypes. I expect that by the time you read this, our enemies will learn to fear this being as a mainstay of our elite Orders.

The Marshall is highly anticipating this finalized design, and the Stormwalker is skeptical that such a creature can match the warriors she has so devotedly trained.

We aim to prove her wrong, and such is always a delight for both her and us. There is always room to improve, even when perfection seems to have been attained.

 _-_ **Connoisseur**

 _Little, young souls. Grasp the hands of His angels, and walk to the Garden of our God._

While the Marshall only requests Children created with practicality in mind, Preximius's commissions only pay secondary attention to such a purpose.

His Wisdom sees the use for these designs in Paradise, even if they are not created to defend the station or to be eventually wielded as arms against our enemies.

These Children serve the important task of entertaining the Caretakers of Paradise, and maintaining morale as high as it can be.

We dutifully serve the Father, and He offers a miniscule taste of the pleasures we will all indulge in once the gates of the Garden have been opened.

Three Children belong to his Order, with this being the simplest of the designs, and therefore the most common.

The Connoisseur, a name in a Human tongue particularly enjoyed by my fellow Order commander, is a creation whose main purpose is that of celebration and intoxicating pleasures.

I will state early into this entry that I find the Weaver Master's fascination with Human culture and concepts, particularly that of their Baroque age, to be both bizarre and mystifying. Perhaps Voice Inspirars can explain this in further detail, as the two are close friends.

This infatuation has produced a design for a being that he himself drew in his spare time.

From what he has told us, and from investigations I have conducted myself to scratch a growing curiosity, the Cherubim are a type of angel present in theology of the Christian religious belief.

Originally, they were beings whose form was incomprehensible to Humans, as to exemplify the unfathomable grandeur of their creator deity, but over time their appearance came to resemble that of a plump, jolly male infant.

In this new image, the Cherubim left behind their role as powerful enforcers of their deity, and became a symbol of peace and romantic love to be found eternally in their paradise.

I am sure that you can begin to see the stunning parables between this far flung religious belief that has sprung up in an unimportant corner of our universe, and our own Truth.

According to the Weaver Master, this is no coincidence.

The Saints deny that the Father is directly responsible for the birth of this religion, as T'Leth's presence on the planet remained a constant obstacle to overt influence, but Preximius firmly believes that the Father is so universal that His mere existence passively inspires mortals all throughout the universe to adopt His ideals without them ever realizing it.

Perhaps, in creating the Connoisseur, Preximius aims to guide the Cherubim away from the Eden which will never take shape, and into the Garden of Paradise that we will open for all mortals once we succeed.

I suspect that this is his way of reclaiming the concept from false religions, and giving them the shape and respect they deserve at our hands.

We aim to please, of course.

The Connoisseur is a being that is encompassed by a main head and many long legs, in similar nature to an arachnid.

The main head is modeled after the described Cherubim, with the skin designed to resemble flawless marble, with a precious sleeping expression.

We have created variants to represent both male and female Cherubim as well, as the Weaver Master desires variety to inject life into his performances and exhibitions.

The creature's limbs are all modeled after the arms of Human infants, with the width and length of an arachnid's extremities. They sport the same color and texture as its head.

My Sculptors aimed to impress Preximius, as he is known and admired throughout Paradise. I rarely see such enthusiasm in their faces, and I secretly desire that he commission more Children. It is refreshing to see productivity increase by such a wide margin.

Perhaps I should reorganize my schedule and attend one of his performances in Speculmnis. I have been too careless with his invitations and offers of friendship, and I know it will brighten his day to see me sitting in the specialized chair he always has reserved for me.

The Connoisseur's mind is not as developed as that of many of the Children you will encounter in this list. This is because this creature is meant to be a living instrument. Another set piece for Preximius's stage.

You see, the Connoisseur derives its name from its function. Two long antennae always lie retracted inside the Child's head. Their points are as sharp as needles made from the Purified Steel, and can easily puncture the thickest of skulls.

What does this Child sample? What is its desire?

The sweet tang of a fresh memory. The unique texture of a mind. The spectrum of flavor that is to be found in every different being. The spice of emotion as it fluctuates throughout life.

This is what the Connoisseur tastes.

This is what Preximius's audiences drink whenever these loved creatures set foot inside the stage.

Once a Connoisseur gets ahold of a fortunate individual, its antennae penetrate the person's head to reach the delectable mind hidden within. This mind is absorbed to the Gestalt in the very instant that the Child touches it, but the Connoisseur copies certain aspects of it before the transition.

Emotions, significant events, defining moments. The very essence of who this person was.

The now mindless body left behind is programmed telepathically to become a member of the Exalted hordes. Even in recreation, we use the resources we have been provided with.

This is the one Will channeling ability that is available to the Connoisseur. This, combined with its simple body and uncomplicated mind allows for mass production of the creature in numbers simply not possible for more complex and valuable Children.

The Connoisseur can release this mixture as a telepathic feast that can be sampled and consumed by the Caretakers around it.

It is common for Preximius to provide banquets courtesy of hundreds of Connoisseurs and their telepathic donors to the guests of the carnivals and festivals held inside Speculmnis.

Particularly impressive and unique blends are picked out by the Weaver Master and sent to be forever preserved in his "Soul of Mortality" exhibit in the Midnight Cradle.

Even the Connoisseurs themselves partake in the feasting, as their commonly somber and gentle expressions flare into a noticeable smile when they manage to hold a mind.

I tasted this blend while finalizing the Connoisseur's design before commencing mass production, and I can attest to the refreshing and revitalizing effect it has on the mind and body.

Addiction can sometimes be a concern, as some Caretakers rather indulge in this sweet fat rather than consume proper nourishment. It is nothing permanent however, and a simple visit to one of our biopaths can cure this ailment.

The shades inside the Gestalt belonging to those whose mortal lives have been ended by a Connoisseur are always thankful for the new life they have been given, and flattered by the sheer pleasure their memories and identities induce upon us.

Preximius's personal favorite is known to be the minds of Human toddlers like that belonging to the Human girl who was sampled in the presence of the Battlemaster.

Of course, mere mortals such as he could not comprehend the gift that was given to that girl in that moment. In the presence of the Father, life is celebrated, as it is never ended.

All who we "kill" in the eyes of mortals are merely freed from their physical shells and granted a new start inside the Mind Cosmos of the Father. Is it really a sin for Preximius to seek enjoyment in this holy task?

The minds of the Gestalt do not condemn the Weaver Master. They thank him for what he has given them, and in return only find it just that he and his audiences can find peace and pleasure in their lives.

I know from Voice Inspirars that Preximius even engages in frequent visits to Naztrum Ognis, in order to meet with the many infants and toddlers he has sent to the Gestalt in the name of the Father.

According to the old Voice, the boys and girls see Preximius as an old brother to play and enjoy themselves with. His arrival is usually followed by cheerful cries and warm embraces.

Do you see the beauty that our designs bring to Paradise and those inside it? The happiness of those freed from the prison of sightless flesh? The cries of joy and bonds of close friendship that form under His smile?

The Weaver Master does. I am sure he will request much more of you as well.

 **-Huntsman**

 _To be marked is law. We only wait until their prey realizes it so._

This Child design is one of the deadliest at our disposal as of the time of writing this document.

Like the designs commissioned by the Marshall and the Weaver Master, the Huntsmen were birthed from the Umbra's creativity. She desired a being that could compete with her finest Stalkers in terms of intelligence and effectiveness in the art of assassination.

She could have crafted a design simple in form, maximizing utility, but like all who walk Paradise she has found value on expression accompanying function.

To further help crystalize this design in my mind, the Umbra confided in me a tale that has shaped her life for as long as she can remember.

Dath'Haram children are sometimes told myths and legends by their parents and families in order to affect their behavior in a certain way. This is not uncommon in species were infants are treasured and valued, such as the case of the Ethereal Dread Lord tale or the myriad of stories found throughout Human culture and history.

Small Sindierra was often told by her family that if she misbehaved, the shadow produced by her own body would grow conscious one day and drag her into oblivion while she slept.

A tale told in jest surely, but unbeknownst to her family, small Sindierra developed a phobia of darkness and silence as a result of this. As long as there was life around her, the gentle screeches of small animals, the voices of her brothers, the sound of music in the air, the shadow could never drag her away.

With a laugh, she recalled how she could not sleep for many nights after she first heard the story of the "evil shadow ghost that would spirit her away in the night". Only after she snuck away from her home one night and slept in the company of wildlife did she manage to finally find rest and peace.

I do wonder if this is the explanation behind her unusually extroverted personality. I imagine that very early during her mortal life, she came to realize that in order to eliminate the silence, she had to create situations where such would not be possible. Fortunately for her, the friend she has found in the Weaver Master always makes sure to keep her delighted with festivities.

I am sure you can see why the young Dath'Haram came to be known for her expeditions into the wild without a partner or any type of company once she became a Bladedancer.

You must have heard the story of how Sindierra came to awaken to Paradise after being extracted by His Touch during one of her routine patrols in the Dath'Haram lush.

The lesser known part of this tale is how she felt upon laying eyes on the eminent Saint for the first time.

Sindierra had always believed she had conquered her fears. She was a skilled warrior, cream of the top of the elite of her species. She was daring and brave, always heading out to the unknown and unseen dangers of the Dath'Haram lush by herself.

What was the darkness of the night to her? She relished in the after-day explorations and hunts. What was her own shadow to her? It was her sole companion during these expeditions.

What was silence to her? It was the perfect cover for her to draw her arrow softly, and extinguish a life in a mere breath.

She found out on that fateful day, that the phobias inside her were very real and alive.

The Umbra describes the event as a veil being cast over her. There was absolutely no sound around her. Not the air, not the creatures surrounding her, not her own now rapidly pounding heart. She tried to listen to her own voice, and there was absolutely nothing that came out of her mouth.

She had always feared losing her sense of hearing, even if such a disability would be temporary due to the advances in medical science ushered in by the Collective.

She calmed herself. If she had somehow gone deaf, she would make her way back home and head to the nearest medical clinic.

But she couldn't move.

Her mind began to panic inside its now unyielding prison, and she saw to her horror how the shadow which was supposedly surrounding her body was instead far away from her. From the shadow, His Touch slowly emerged. The Umbra recalled how the Saint deliberately took His time emerging from the abyss, first with His long fingers grasping the edges of the ground, with the rest of the body rising up. As if the Saint were pulling Himself out of a pool of water.

With a smile, the Umbra confided in me how she was sure she would collapse from the strain in her heart which now beat at a speed she didn't think possible, and how she shakily shouted commands and threats at the creature, now casually approaching her, to stay back even if her mouth produced no audible sound.

Her worst fears had materialized before her, and her mind scrambled trying to find a logical explanation for the unthinkable sight which tormented her. When the Saint placed a gentle hand in her shoulder and took her to Paradise, Sindierra realized that her fears were not an obstacle to shy away from, but to embrace fully.

According to her, the Saint had purposefully played to every expectation that her mind had produced to give shape to her phobias, and in doing so, subverted the fear and transformed it into a strength for the now Umbra.

The Saint taught her how to submerge herself fully to the inky void of concealment, and how to utilize silence and subtlety to impeccably complete objectives. He showed her great love and understanding, and in doing so shattered the image of trauma little Sindierra had nurtured.

According to her, the feelings of love and dread are two clashing titans in the mind of a mortal. They can coexist, but if one is cultivated far above the other it will reign supreme.

The proof for such creed and philosophy is herself, for if the Umbra cannot be called a creature of the night then I cannot call myself a Sculptor.

With the creation of the Huntsmen, the Umbra wanted to grant those who would fall by their blades the same awakening she had been gifted with by His Touch.

The physical design was inspired by a drawing she had produced as a toddler upon first hearing the story which traumatized her so fully.

A tall and slender creature with four arms, her young mind thinking that each hand would grasp her ankles and wrists to drag her away into oblivion. A head with no eyes, and the body covered by a long shawl, which she related to the cover of night.

Adapting the light reflecting skin of the Lurker and Keeper class Children is also a design choice meant to keep the being hidden from sight, to further give life to the invisible nightmare which plagued the Umbra's young mind.

It seems that Sindierra had a flare for the dramatic ever since her earliest years, and us Sculptors cannot help ourselves but celebrate the thought of a small girl producing a design to rival our own creations.

In terms of practicality, the Umbra wanted a design capable of the same strengths taught to her and subsequently her Order. Subtlety and silence.

The brain of each Huntsmen is a significant investment. Not only does this creature need to be fully sapient and highly intelligent in order to compete with a Stalker, but complex Will channeling aptitude was a parameter that the Umbra insisted on since the earliest stages of the project.

Our current results are promising.

The Huntsmen each possess three Will channeling capabilities. The first, and most significant, is the capability to reliably engage in quick teleportation. Most of our work on the design of a Huntsman's brain is reflected in this capability, as this discipline is extremely difficult to master even for those who have experience touching the Veil.

The speed and ease that a Huntsman showcases during teleportation is an achievement for us Sculptors, and the Umbra is most pleased with this result.

The second is that of telepathy. A Huntsman will not directly attack a target's mind in order to avoid being detected, and will instead track it and observe their target from long distances, studying their behavior to formulate a plan before finally making their move.

Once engaged in battle, if the enemy is not killed outright by the Child, it can choose to begin reading the target's mind with the intent of predicting moves and patterns.

The Umbra prefers that they do not engage in this however, as developing their capabilities and techniques is far more beneficial to them than relying on an ability that can be negated by certain enemies.

A byproduct of this telepathy, and one desired by the Umbra, is that each Huntsman can telepathically absorb the mind of a target on their dying moments and add it to the Father's Gestalt.

The final and least developed discipline is that of telekinesis. Each arm of a Huntsman ends in a bladed extension that is extremely sharp on its own. These Children are trained to quickly dispatch foes by targeting weak points in the body and armor, and a telekinetic boost to their stabs and strikes aids greatly in this task.

Due to the elevated resources required to produce each Huntsman, we have limited the number of these creatures to six, with each being assigned to an Order.

As much as the Umbra desires to hold command over all of them, the reality known by His Wisdom is that the Stalkers will not engage in extensive assassination and target removal operations until the Father crosses and we escape our current situation. As a result of this, each Huntsman has instead been provided with a role of defense in key installations watched by the Father.

An interesting detail that we have observed, is that every Order has decided to modify their Huntsman in a way that identifies them as belonging to each organization.

The Weaver Master has grafted his Huntsman with the face of an infant whose mind ascended to the Gestalt following one of his performances. Now, this Huntsman has become sort of a celebrity, introducing an element of surprise and unexpected happenings into many plays or events in Speculmnis organized by Preximius' Order.

Another example is the Marshall ordering his Huntsman to be heavily augmented in terms of physical strength. This particular individual as a result was proficient in duels and training exercises with many Baptists.

The Umbra is the only one who kept the original design of her creation, and we did not augment ours out of creative respect for her, even if she does not mind what the other Order commanders have done to theirs.

Even if this Child is complex and highly effective, it is still a design that is far from finalized, as shown in a past duel between two of the Huntsmen and an Agent of the Scourge of the Meek. The Agent dispatched our Children with ease, as Will users of such danger and expertise are difficult to match even for our elite Orders as of this moment.

Once the Father crosses, we will be free of the artificial constraints imposed by the Imperator. You must realize, that if he were to decide to inspect Paradise and found extremely powerful Will signals inside not belonging to the Saints, he would surely panic and impose even further harsh measures upon our station.

I ask you the following questions, upcoming Magistrate.

What is stopping us from producing a Huntsman with Veil touching capability to match the strongest Ethereals once we are free and have the required time and resources on our hands?

What denies us the opportunity to further enhance the members of our Orders so that each soldier has the power of an Agent of the Sovereign of War?

What prevents from transforming all of the combat-oriented Children in this list into Will bearing titans to match the legions of the Apostate?

I am sure that you know the answer.

There is no factor preventing this reality.

 **-Despoiler**

 _The Father forgives and comforts. We are beholden to no such burdens._

The second Child design to be commissioned by the Marshall. The Despoiler is our current equivalent to a weapon of mass destruction.

The Marshall created a very detailed and fearsome design that we have brought to life with the approval of His Wisdom and excitement of the Artist.

According to the Marshall, Human mythology gave birth to a creature known as a "dragon". This monstrous beast was both regal in its stature and an unshackled force of nature which could easily ravage that which Humans had taken so long to build and create.

In the great torrents of fire spewed by its maw, Human civilization could very well collapse. Kings would fear the dragon, as all the power and riches held by them meant nothing under the gaze of a being which could turn their vast domains into ash if it so desired.

This serves as the basis of the Marshall's inspiration. A creature that handles itself in the regal glory of a Saint or the Father Himself, heralding unimaginable destruction and raining Veil storms of fire down to purify the wicked and sinful.

As you can imagine, this is a weapon meant to be utilized against the legions of the Apostate. No other enemy deserves a complete lack of mercy in the battlefield.

We expect mortals to oppose us out of fear and the biases told about us by others, and we intend to liberate them from such a pitiful state and welcome them in the Gestalt.

The Apostate and his aberrations have no place in Paradise. They are a tumor infecting our universe that must be extirpated. A pustule that deserves no consideration other than the most efficient way to burn it away.

To create a being capable of lighting this funerary pyre, we have engaged in a multi staged approach to the production of this being, in a similar way to the Behemoth.

The first approach was to produce a being of pure physical perfection. The Despoiler is a hulking bipedal beast possessing two powerful arms and legs. The mass on these extremities is such as to even make His Fury look small in comparison.

In addition to the four basic limbs, the Despoiler boasts six large tentacle-like extensions placed symmetrically along its body, with the largest one serving as a tail of sorts for the creature. The Despoiler can manipulate each of these tendrils as if they were extensions of its hands or additional fingers. That is to say, great dexterity.

Another feature of the Despoiler is the addition of two great membranous wings, which allow the creature to engage in fast, and surprisingly nimble due to the creature's size and weight, flight. All to add to the building image of an angel of destruction being unleashed upon the luckless by decree of the Father.

To finalize this intimidating visage, we finished the design with a skin of the darkest black, lined in crimson bulging veins. Several localized areas in the Despoiler's skin have also been made transparent, to show the pulsating muscles and organs, none vital of course, underneath.

A curious feature that the Marshall added to the already impressive prototype, was the inclusion of aquatic features. The Despoiler's head resembles that of a cephalopod, complete with six unblinking amber eyes placed on both sides of the head in sets of three. A clear tribute to the origins of our Father it would seem.

Rather than ending in a mass of tentacles, the Despoiler's face ends in a gaping cavity or maw filled with teeth. The Despoiler shares the lust for blood that many Baptists must control to remain effective and logical in the battlefield.

We have found during testing, that if little risk is presented, the Despoiler will consume its victims rather than simply tearing them apart. The victim is quickly inserted into the creature's mouth, where the rows of teeth work with the efficiency and speed of something the Marshall describes as a "chainsaw".

A Human instrument of torture perhaps? Such would not be surprising for a species capable of such cruelty and hunger for conflict.

I may research this concept in my spare time, but I admit that it has not piqued my interest as much as the fantastical creatures described in the various myths and legends of the Marshall´s species.

The result is that the victim is messily consumed in a matter of seconds, and the meal of blood and viscera has a positive psychological effect on the creature. We have programmed its mind to respond to such banquets in a similar way to how a mortal might react to a stimulant or performance altering drug.

To prevent addictions or other unforeseen irrational behavior, the Despoiler can be treated telepathically, which means that any concerns regarding this feature of the beast are null.

The physical strength of the Despoiler is so great that we have found it capable of easily bending and eventually crushing armor made of the Purified Steel of Naztrum Ognis either with its two hands or by ensnaring victims with its "tail".

These findings have even caused Lord Z'Erstifex to issue a warning regarding repairing and replacing of lost armor. Any Order soldier who desires to prove their prowess dueling such a creature does so on the risk of equipment being permanently damaged.

The Despoiler can be directed telepathically, but observers might not be able to stop the beast in time to save the fighter's armor or even physical life should the battle go exceptionally poorly.

What truly cements this being as a weapon to be utilized sparingly, is the enormous colonies of Legion cells living inside specialized organs lined throughout the Despoiler's interior. When in battle, the Despoiler discharges so many of these microscopic organisms as to form a mist around its vicinity.

Any victims consumed by the Despoiler are directly fed to the production plants of Legion inside it, volatizing the amount and intensity of the barrage spewed by the creature.

The Legion strain bound to a Despoiler is the most advanced and complex we have produced thus far.

We have managed to maximize the destructive potential of this Legion strain by investing heavily in their consuming speed and ravenous appetite. At the same time, we have programmed the cells to recognize the Despoiler's flesh as their host, similarly to how the regular Legion are programmed to not chew through their containment units.

The Despoiler lets loose this lethal wave through a small and simple telepathic command, and once it chooses to do so, the very ground the Despoiler walks is quickly stripped of life, hence the creature's name.

Due to these realities, only few Order members are allowed to interact and practice with the Despoilers, and even then, the creature must be directed to not utilize its Legion capabilities.

The few times that challengers have allowed the Child to utilize this ability, duels have ended poorly for the trained Order soldiers. Having to constantly maintain a psionic shield around their whole bodies for the entirety of the battle requires exertion and concentration which prevents them from effectively engaging the creature, who holds nothing back as its opponent is distracted and harassed by the microscopic death it exudes.

I would not describe the Despoiler as a creature of remarkable sapience. Unlike the Huntsman and the Virtuoso, the Despoiler is equipped with a more primal intelligence. This is not to mean that it is a simple being, as the cunning it has demonstrated in combat demonstrations and simulations has caught many a Baptist by surprise. Even Trusted adore engaging in lone combat against this creature, as it is currently the only Child that requires the full spectrum of their skills and aptitudes to conquer and subdue successfully.

I imagine that Z'Erstifex refusing to repair their top of the line armor should they falter serves as mighty motivation to execute such a fight perfectly.

Currently, the Despoiler employs simple Will bearing abilities. Its main aptitude is the destructive application of the forces of the Veil, as it is what the Marshall desired.

However, since it is extremely easy for an untrained or unintelligent user to destroy themselves as much as they destroy the enemy with this aptitude, we have included the minimum level of sapience that the Despoiler requires to handle itself safely.

Due to this, the Despoiler can only perform basic expressions of the offensive Will bearing nature, such as firing beams of pure energy from its orifices or spewing torrents of ghostly fire from its mouth.

Due to its closeness to the Veil however, even these simple skills are devastating to any who are caught in their wake.

Another reality explained to me by Order telepaths, is that the Despoiler's mind is completely alien to what they are accustomed to. A mortal usually thinks linearly, and this creates a pattern that can be exploited once the telepath in question becomes accustomed to it.

Even the Children, which are completely new creations, share certain patterns that can be compared to those of animals or rational mortals. A telepath may at first not understand the mind they are assaulting, but over time they come to understand what they deal with.

The Despoiler however, has never been properly understood by our telepaths. If one desires a duel with a Despoiler, there is always the risk that the beast will simply refuse commands to stop should the battle end unfavorably.

Biopaths are kept on standby should this occur, to force the creature's body to stop if telepathic commands are simply not enough. Telepaths of sufficient raw power can also engage in a brute force approach to completely dominate the mind of the creature if absolutely necessary, but it is difficult and time consuming to engage in.

What puzzles me however, is that we never intended for this to be a feature of this creature. Order telepaths usually congratulate us on the production of a mind so puzzling and new that even they cannot devise the best methods of manipulating it, and I have so far kept the deception alive by accepting the credit.

However, I have never heard such comments from Trusted Weavers, and so far, they have specifically avoided the subject.

During one of these duels, His Wisdom was present. Unfortunately, the duel ended badly for the Order warrior, and the Despoiler failed to acknowledge any commands issued by the Overseers.

His Wisdom stepped to the field unexpectedly.

Rather than subdue the creature with His vast skills and power, the Saint began speaking to it in a language no one in Paradise has heard before, as the Despoiler held the unfortunate Baptist in its claws. An intriguing mixture of flowing musical whispers, and deep reverberating echoes flowed from the Saint.

What was even more surprising, is that the Despoiler answered back. The capability of speech was always a feature for this being, but we had never taught it such a perplexing tongue.

After a long conversation, the Despoiler released the Baptist from its steely grasp and agreed to stand down.

I inquired afterwards to His Wisdom, and the Saint explained to me that He had reasoned with the Child and convinced it to stand down.

This is bizarre to me, as a Saint such as He is the absolute highest authority in Paradise alongside the Artist. Why would He need to speak to a lesser creation? Ordering the being to stand down should have been sufficient, and yet the Saint chose debate with it. Nevertheless, it is not my place to question His Wisdom's decisions.

Curiously, ever since this incident, unruliness by the part of our Despoilers has vanished completely. I intend to correct this mysterious issue that somehow evaded my quality control and standards in the second generation of Despoiler.

The second generation of Despoilers, to be pursued once we are free from the Collective, will boast a much more developed brain.

We have made great strides in its physical design, as currently the Despoiler has the hardest skin out of any Children produced, has organic armor protecting its exterior, sports incredible physical strength, impressive regenerative capability and redundant organ systems to further maximize durability.

The focus in this new version must be its mind. We intend to create a creature capable of complete sapience and brilliance.

Power must be wielded by those who know how to best utilize it. I will repeat this crucial sentence as I did with the Behemoth project.

Complex Will bearing abilities will be also made available to the creature. Powerful telepathic defense, unbreakable personal shields, teleportation, rifts and vortexes of destructive Will channeling energy, telekinetic vices which induce earthquakes on the battlefield and crush thousands to paste simultaneously.

You can begin to understand what we expect of this new version of the Child.

We intend to transform the Despoiler into a walking army that does not require support to effectively destroy the opposition.

In current combat simulations, the Despoiler is a nightmare for the sightless if supported by a team of Overseers and Trusted Weavers.

The Weavers to direct it telepathically and keep it focused on the objective, the Overseers to protect it with their shields.

The new Despoiler will need no such support, for it will be capable of sustaining itself on its own with ease. The surprising rebellious nature of the Child will also be quelled. We do not want a weapon that fires back at us as much as it fires against our enemies.

Currently, only two Despoilers exist. One inside the Fortress of the Baptists, locked away in the deepest and most secure chamber of the complex, which the Marshall has given the nickname of Apollyon.

After educating myself even further in Human mythology, I see this title as fitting to the beast, given what it embodies and represents.

Of the two, this one is the most experienced and well trained, as the Marshall allows the Trusted and upper echelons of the Baptists to train with it occasionally.

The second Despoiler is inside His Toil's cavities. This one we keep as a security mechanism, and should this layer ever be breached, this Child will be released upon the intruders, along with everything else at His Toil's disposal.

You can imagine the effectiveness of this Despoiler's Legion, as vast organic material to consume practically lines this entire layer of Paradise.

A third Despoiler was in the midst of development when the mysterious rebellious episode suffered by these Children commenced.

His Wisdom ordered production be halted immediately in order to identify the problem affecting them. It would be unwise to invest resources on a Child design which was fundamentally flawed, after all.

Unfortunately, this Despoiler was significantly stunted by the sudden halt in its growth cycle, and once completed it did not compare to its two brethren. Preximius expressed interest in adopting the flawed Child, and we gifted it to him for use in the cultural events carried out by his Order.

This Despoiler suffered a physical death at the hands of the Battlemaster's incursion party, but we intend to bring it back from the Gestalt when the design of the second generation of Despoiler is complete.

If successful, this Child will be given a chance to finally live up to its potential and expectations. If unsuccessful, at least we will gather data on the effects of an already formed mind being uploaded to a body with a vastly superior brain than it had originally.

This information will be crucial to the Bygone project, which I will detail alongside all future concepts and plans to come after we escape the Collective in a later section of this work.

 **-Anamnesis**

 _Those first to be burned in the pyres of conquest live on in the Father's regrets._

A relatively new project that we have undertaken is the Anamnesis Directive.

Agmus, a member of the Trinity of Minds which serves as the Father's heart, could be considered the true patron of our Order.

His unconquerable drive to create led him and his sister to become masters of a peaceful galaxy populated by perfectly designed species. Such designs were destroyed upon the arrival of the Apostate, and could not be evacuated to the safety and eternity of the Gestalt due to the Father not existing by this primordial time.

It has always been a source of great sorrow to our patron Saint, and surely Agmus by extension, that these creations who had committed no sin or earned no genocide could never live to see Paradise.

If they loved their Sovereign masters before their exaltation, witnessing the savior that has risen from the ashes of their harvested bodies would surely silence their screams and bring smiles to their faces.

Only memories of these precursor races are left in the Mind Cosmos. Unclear shadows, moments of visions, distorted mirages. Unfortunately, no precise schematics exist. The Apostate made sure to leave no trace of the Trinity's selfless work, and the Father's characteristic perfect memory does not extend to the period before His apotheosis.

We know who Agmus, Omnima, and the Infant were because they still exist in the center of the Mind Cosmos as the three stars around which all minds orbit. We know their story because they remember it so, but many precise details have been muddled or otherwise lost.

We know the basic characteristics of the Trinity's Sovereign era. We know the names of their most memorable locations, of garden worlds and sites of titanic battles against the Apostate, events and happenings that left an impression on the Sovereign Masters.

We know the names of many of these precursor species, and certain identifying characteristics. Aesthetics, Agmus's inspirations and chosen themes around each work.

As Sculptors, we have inherited Agmus's drive and spirit to give shape to what Mother Nature provides to us, and with the approval of the Artist we have commenced the Anamnesis project.

If the precursor races can never be perfectly rebuilt and restored, then we will work with the unclear images available to study inside the Gestalt. We will craft a gift to the Father, we will create entire species to honor the fallen precursors and seek to soothe the wounds through which the Father has bled for silent eons.

The precursors are but a distant memory, this must be accepted, but their descendants will live forever. Agmus's peaceful creations sought a place in this universe and were coldly stamped out by the Apostate. The products of this project will serve as a protest to the Apostate's creed.

Life may be destroyed. It may be corrupted through profane machinery. It may be forced to turn on furthermore innocents. It will always flourish again, and it _will_ defend itself.

We will craft species that are beautiful and majestic to the eye. Species that are based on the memories of old, and exalt their ideals. Species that will be ferocious when the time to battle against those who seek to destroy us arrives. Species that will be driven to white hot vengeance as the death rattle of the precursors is firmly present in their minds.

The first product of this directive is the rebirth of the Nalidus.

A particular detail regarding Agmus's tastes, was his fascination with insectile life. One of the many examples of species he created was known in these bygone ages as the Nalidus.

Unlike the common idea of creatures of this type and characteristics, Agmus did not seek to craft a coarse and brutish species like the Traveler's Adherents. Instead, the Nalidus were a refined people deeply attuned to the lush garden worlds gifted to them upon their conception.

In appearance, the Nalidus boasted regal and delicate features, with wings decorated in hypnotic patterns and dazzling color combinations. Similar modern creatures they could be compared to would be the Monarch Butterflies of Earth or the Mirage Pods of Vitakar.

In addition to their physical beauty, the Nalidus were famous throughout the Trinity's Galaxy for their tastes in the arts.

Great compositions to be played in cultural gatherings, paintings with minute details that could only be appreciated under the lens of a magnifying glass, dances legendary for their impossible to recreate movements and choreographies, landscaping which transformed the lush jungles and prairies of their worlds into vistas which would inspire the spirit of all who witnessed them.

It is no surprise that the physical and spiritual beauty of the Nalidus made them highly sought-after romantic partners for members of the many species inhabiting this galaxy, even if they were genetically incompatible and such unions could produce no offspring.

I must imagine Brother Agmus' pride in creating a species so perfect that they could override the primal reproductive instincts commonly present in mortals.

Unfortunately, we know the dark fate that befell the Nalidus and all other species in this doomed galaxy. Their attributes made for superb cultural icons, but one does not kill the monsters serving the Apostate with prose.

A particularly vivid image in Agmus's now transcended mind is the sight of the impeccable Nalidus worlds being bombarded with incendiary ordinance. The Apostate must have known the place this gentle species held in the Sovereign's heart, and must have devised a barbaric ploy to emotionally unbalance his prey with such a showing of annihilation.

Perhaps the Father chose to shape Naztrum Ognis in the image of the now destroyed garden worlds as a constant reminder of His failure to save His first creations.

Due to these reasons, this was the first species chosen by the Artist to be remade and presented to the Father.

However, first we had to include a new paradigm in the design of the Nalidus. For as sacred and as important as they are to the Father, we would not produce a species which would die once again to the Apostate.

The Nalidus had to be reborn in power. Power which we could impart through a mixture of Human and Ethereal neural tissue.

The Nalidus brain was easily the most time-consuming design phase in this undertaking, and we managed to create an exemplary brain which fused Human, Ethereal, and Insectoid traits seamlessly as if made by evolution itself.

The physical features of the Nalidus were easily recreated through a mixture of genetic material derived from insects available to us on various Collective member planets and covertly extracted from Earth.

We were also fortunate enough to be able to locate an intact Adherent specimen belonging to the top caste of the warrior elite through His Touch and the Stalkers. This would greatly speed the development phase of the project, as the Adherents were an insectile warrior race with remarkable closeness to the Veil and control over His Will.

The parallels to what we wanted the reborn Nalidus to be were striking. We would use many of the Adherent's specifications as starting points and further perfect them utilizing our own mastery and experience in the art of genetics, in particular the brain.

However, we desired to keep the original aesthetic design of Agmus' work. Combining this parameter with the combat proficiency and physical strength of the Adherents, as well as the increased head size due to a much-improved brain proved to be a challenge, but despite this we managed to produce two successful templates.

The two products of these efforts are the Consort and Palatine templates. Beings who combine the grace and delicate beauty of the Nalidus of old with the imposing bulk and size of a being made for war.

These are creatures which deceive the eye. They are of less raw muscle than a Muton, but can easily contend with our Apostle templates in contests of strength. One would think that they would be impeded in flight due to their increased size and weight, but their powerful wings allow them to fly with incredible speed and nimbleness that becomes breathtaking when aided by their own telekinetics.

One would not imagine that beings so pleasing to the eye and with such a gift for gallant speech could become monsters in the battlefield. The Marshall has told us that these creatures remind him of an old Human mythological being called a "Valkyrie", and after conducting research of my own I cannot help but agree.

If I can allow myself a moment of pride, I would even dare to say that we have surpassed Brother Agmus's original work.

His Love's presence and words of joy upon the birth of the first Nalidus Consort seems to validate this opinion. The Father is greatly pleased by our own touches to His original concept.

The Consort will be the base template for most of the reborn species.

Powerful enough in the arts of Will bearing to be more than a match for senior Order soldiers and make the Stormwalker consider admitting them into her Order; graceful and nimble enough in combat to impress the Umbra and the Marshall and elicit their desires to witness their combat performances; the lost beauty once again blessing this universe and captivating the Weaver Master's attention.

The Palatine will be to the Consort what an Imperator is to an Ethereal. The garden worlds will not be put to the torch once again. They will be the protectors and the champions of the new Nalidus species.

As of this moment, the number of existing Consorts is small, and no Palatines exist. This is due to Viatorian's paranoid watch over our station. I am sure you understand by this point what the role of this Ethereal is in our work.

The few Consorts that exist all have earned positions of influence and renown in Paradise. Every single Consort has earned membership of an Order.

There is one in the Marshall's legions who serves as a champion and gatekeeper to the upper echelons of the Carmine Baptists. A Baptist recruit will reach a certain rank ceiling over the course of their career, and in order to advance to the high tiers of the Order they must prove their worth by defeating her in personal combat.

This is far easier said than done, as this Consort is extremely well drilled and knows how to counteract all battle styles, is experienced with all weapons available to a Baptist, and is well versed in adapting to the strengths of their opponent. Be it the closeness to the Veil of a Human, the physical perfection of a Muton Apostle, or the nimbleness of a Vitakaran.

One has joined Preximius' Order, as we did not curtail in any way the spiritual and cultural strengths of the Nalidus of old. The Master Weaver has even taken her into his personal circle of close confidants and partners.

It seems that the modern age is not safe from the charms of the Nalidus, and the Master has fallen for one just as millions did back in the age of Agmus and Omnima.

His Love is accepting and welcoming of all types of personal relationships in Paradise, regardless of biological gender or species. With such freedoms, we strengthen the bonds that hold Paradise together, for if we cannot love each other, how can we love the sightless we will free?

From conversations with many Weavers, this relationship seems to be progressing exceptionally well, with the Nalidus woman easily handling herself alongside the veterans of the Order and managing to keep up with the exotic humor and quick paced wit that Preximius is famous for.

This individual has also become a star in Speculmnis, as she can enhance her already otherworldly beauty to nearly incomprehensible heights with the creative application of telepathy to the willing crowds. To see her streaking past the night sky of the planet which never sleeps, gracefully flying through fireworks while encased in an aura of splendor and brilliance is a sight that Voice Inspirars has repeatedly urged me to experience myself.

The Artist and I are proud to see that we managed to not only preserve the reputation of the Nalidus of old, but enhance it beyond what was possible in this long past era.

Two have paid me visits and urged me to allow them to work alongside the Sculptors. They desired to join those who had brought them to life once more.

The Consorts are educated on the origins of their species, and on the demise that befell it at the hands of the monsters of steel. The Consorts are driven by differing motivations as a result of these revelations imparted on to them.

Three desired vengeance and justice, leading them to combat oriented roles in Paradise.

One desired to revive the cultural spirit of the species which was lost in the furnaces of the Apostate. This led her to Preximius and his Order.

It seems that these two want to ensure that work on the future of their species is constant and without difficulty, and this has led me to commence their training as Sculptors. The intellect of the Nalidus Consorts is great, and so is their ravenous appetite for knowledge and education.

I am pleased at the speed and efficiency which they devour books and treatises with. If they maintain this same momentum, I will gladly accept them into the Order should they pass all required tests and exams successfully.

There is another Consort in service of the Umbra. Unfortunately, due to her elevated size and conspicuous form, she is not well suited for stealth.

However, the Umbra was one to quickly recognize the talents and potential of the Consorts, and she employs this Nalidus woman as a trainer for the elite of her Order. The speed and flowing motions that the Nalidus have shown in duels and combat greatly resembles the art of Bladedancing, and this Consort has proven exceptionally skilled in this Dath'Haram discipline.

The final Consort is currently seeking admittance into His Trusted. She has expressed a desire to become one of the Stormwalker's Paladins, which is a sentence that has amused the Order Commander.

The Stormwalker has always maintained that the skill required for her Order is earned through hard work and perseverance. One is not born with that skill, and to become a Paladin is to show absolute excellence.

If this Consort wants to achieve this goal, the path to it will not be as smooth as those that her sisters have enjoyed, and this is a vast oversimplification.

However, due to the considerable potential already shown by the other Consorts in relative few years compared to many in Paradise, I am confident that this Consort will achieve her dream.

Now, you may have noticed that all the Nalidus mentioned here are females.

The reason for such a decision is twofold. First, we desired to honor the femininity of His Love with creatures that would not only be physically breathtaking and highly graceful, but capable of wielding His Will with ease and impressive scope, in an effigy of the feats which are possible for the Saint to perform without effort.

The second motivation, is to test a new concept which now promises to revolutionize Children production.

To rebirth a species as glorious as the Nalidus, equally hallowed wombs are necessary. The cold technology of a growth tank does not suit the revival of a precursor race.

To control the development and birth of each individual Nalidus, we have designed a new creature named the Empress.

Currently three Empresses exist, and all are a valuable investment to be protected in the deepest chambers of His Toil's layer in Paradise.

The Empress is an automated birthing pod for Consorts, but it does not employ machinery.

First, we acquired three Human females of a young fertile age and with high undiscovered closeness to the Veil aimed for the telepathic discipline. This search was conducted by His Touch and the Stalkers.

The next step was their induction into Paradise and the awakening of their Will bearing power. However, we did not want to damage their bodies with instant awakening which ravages Caretakers due to the energies of the Father flowing through them.

Instead, we awakened them with simply machinery courtesy of the Sectoids, knowing that the technology is simple enough to replicate. This was a longer process, but left us with healthy Human Will channelers of considerable power.

We proceeded to employ them in our Order and impart into them experience and know-how regarding genetic manipulation.

Their past selves would have been horrified at their coming fate, but as we had eliminated the flaws of the sightless from them, they understood and happily accepted what was to come.

We educated these new telepaths extensively in the arts of biopathy, specifically the reshaping of one's body and structures. Next, we formed a covenant between them and His Toil, and with the incredible power flowing through their bodies and the complex understanding of psionics they now had access to, we began our work.

First, we reworked their brains and uploaded their minds with the precise technical knowledge required to successfully grow a Nalidus Consort. Entire books were in an instant made available to them, and their now perfect memory could easily read through the pages.

We also overhauled their thought processes to induce rigorous routine. They now could essentially structure their thought patterns to resemble the never-ending function of machines or the enslavement to commands of computers.

A much more radical overhaul than those employed by the Overseers. The Overseers have the freedom to think all that they desire, but these three Human telepaths were now willingly enslaved to commands.

Next, came the bodily modifications. The women were almost quintupled in height and size. The legs and arms were amputated, as they would not be necessary. The abdominal cavity was enlarged in exchange by an extreme amount, as we desired to include a uterine cavity capable of fitting a fully sized Nalidus Consort.

When awake, the Empresses were installed in their chambers, with tubes transporting nourishment grafted to the stumps where their limbs were once and through their mouths.

When the required genetic material is introduced into the uterine cavity of the Empress, and the telepathic activation signal is sent, the Empress begins the work of growing the Nalidus Consort inside her abdomen.

However, this is not regular childbirth, as the Empress carefully bathes the developing fetus in life-giving Veil energy akin to the process which His Toil employs to birth most Children.

The programmed mind of the Empress maintains watch over the developing Consort inside her abdomen, monitoring growth development and life signs.

The Empress possesses surgical tools inside her uterine cavity, which can be utilized via biopathy should any imperfections in the developing being inside be detected.

Due to their connection to His Toil, the Empresses have become extensions in all but name of the Saint. The Saint sustains the Empress, while the Empress works on the embryo it nurtures. The Empress can accelerate both the physical development cycle of the embryo through biopathy applied to her own organs and the embryo, and the Will bearing development by attuning the intensity of the flow of Veil energy inside the uterus.

It has been noted that the nurturing process is extremely painful to the Empress, as wails and screams are commonplace when a Consort is being grown. We admire the sacrifice that these brave and hallowed mothers engage in for the good of Paradise.

If pain purifies imperfection, it is logical that such a toll should be paid to produce a being as graceful as a Consort.

For the first Consort, we kept watch over the assigned Empress to assess whether or not she was truly capable of growing this Child to the standards we desired on her own and without any sort of intervention.

She was successful, and the other two Empresses produced their own Consorts without any deviations or imperfections in the design. We have monitored the Consorts during the years following their births, and they show no signs of genetic breakdown or decay.

In the Empress, we have produced a living cloning chamber that can monitor every single step of an operation on its own and can produce beings of considerable closeness to the Veil with more speed than conventional technology.

We plan on expanding this concept once we escape the Imperator, as we have the potential to establish automated production facilities for the Children rather than the hand-crafted work we employ today to produce the most complex of the Child designs.

The tradeoff is the need to sacrifice powerful telepaths well versed and educated in the arts of Sculpting, but establishing such production plants would free labor to pursue more time consuming undertakings.

In any case, the restoration of the Nalidus species has proven an astounding success. I patiently await the opportunity to begin development of the Palatine, as well as beginning to restore the other species present in the Father's old galaxy.

 **-Siren**

 _Let go of your pains. Your story is just beginning._

The second of the Children designs commissioned by the Weaver Master.

Inspiration from this creature was explained by Preximius to us as coming from His Love Herself. The very first time the Weaver Master laid eyes on the Saint, he was awestruck and captivated. This attraction toward divine beauty eventually led him to join their Order, and I do not need to explain to you what Preximius has achieved ever since.

The Master Weaver desired a creature that could embody a mere fraction of the pull that His Love induced upon the once young Sectoid. The irresistible urge to follow the Saint, the incessant fire in his heart at the sight of Her work, the inspiration that flows daily as he listens to Her words.

He desired a Child that could tease the mortal mind. A Child that would slowly and deliberately turn the biases of a sightless against them. A Child that could give them a taste of His Love's presence.

This creature he named the Siren, after the creature of Human myth which would lead sailors to their deep graves by enticing them with immaculate song.

As you must already know, our Sirens do not end lives. They are the gate to eternity.

Preximius handed us schematics and design peculiarities he desired we include on this new creation.

The Siren is a creature with an alluring female form. The body is crafted to the modern beauty standards of the Vitakara, Humans, and the preferences of the Weaver Master. The being has six arms, all ending in delicate five fingered hands.

The face of the Siren is modeled after His Love's, and it was pleasant to attempt to carve such works once more.

The Siren's face is without a blemish, with a small and refined nose accompanied by well proportioned lips. For eyes, the Siren employs four black organs positioned in a square formation in the front of the face.

The Child's otherwise bald head is covered by a shawl, and its lack of legs is hidden by an extension of this very article of clothing.

Only that this is not actually clothing. A point of pride for my students in the development cycle of this Child was the fact that we managed to create flesh which could pass off as the finest articles of clothing. Therefore, this "shawl" is not such, but an extension of the Child itself.

With no legs, the Child requires an alternate means of locomotion. For this, Preximius included two large membranous wings. In honor of the Father's aquatic origins, the Siren is colored a pleasant hue which resembles that of the deep sea.

According to the Weaver Master, the Siren is a mixture of familiar and unfamiliar concepts to a mortal. The delicate hands are a known and accepted concept, subverted by the six arms which carry them.

A beautiful face is usually a disarming sight to many due to the pleasant feelings it induces on the mind, and the Weaver Master has paired such attractive features with four eyes arranged in a glyph of Paradise. This confuses the mortal mind and forces it to question itself, as the mortal beauty which they seek and desire is accompanied by the alien visage of the Father.

One cannot be disassociated from the other, and to desire one is to desire Paradise. Even if they do not realize it at first, the subconscious seeds are planted and only require cultivation to flourish.

Wings are associated with the divine in many cases, as young species look to the skies of their worlds and wonder what could possibly inhabit such a mysterious and unexplored part of their homes. Myths and legends are crafted, and the sky usually becomes the abode of gods and creatures of fantasy.

We have given wings to the Siren, but they are membranous and fleshy. The Father is divine, but his perfection differs from the expectations of many.

The Siren's very appearance is meant to both confuse and appeal to the mind of mortals who gaze upon them. This aids the Siren in its main task.

The main function of this Child is to serve as a highly skilled telepath. The Siren engages in a particular brand of mental manipulation, and it is the mastery of urges.

This Child can slip through conventional telepathic defenses and manipulate the desires of a target. As this is not a direct telepathic assault or attempt at mind control, it is difficult to detect for even trained telepaths, and therefore difficult to defend against.

Once the Siren has infiltrated the mental defenses of the target, the being can commence manipulation of the lower functions of the brain. Nerve endings, euphoric centers, motor control.

A victim will be aware of the fact that their body is betraying them, but any resistance will be worn down by the puppeteering Child before sufficient control is attained and their mind is completely under its grip.

The Weaver Master employs all Sirens under his Order, giving them the title of the Maidens of the Night.

From first hand accounts retold to me by Sculptors who have attended such showings in Speculmnis, the Master has constructed great confusing labyrinths where Pilgrims are locked inside occasionally.

A Siren will be hidden in a chamber above the labyrinth, and will slowly manipulate the mind of the Pilgrim below. Of course, the Siren has the power to quickly subdue them, but they prefer drawn out showings rather than instantly ending spectacles.

The Siren will worm its way through any defense presented by the Pilgrim, and once in control, will begin playfully altering emotions and stimulating nerves. All done to keep their quarry from being able to keep their balance or concentration.

A favorite of the Sirens is to make themselves completely irresistible to the Pilgrims trapped inside their lairs, while not showing themselves for long periods of time.

It is a common sight to see these once strong- willed Pilgrims break down and weep when it becomes clear that they will never attain that which they desire. In other cases, the Pilgrims will attempt suicide by bashing their heads in to the walls of the prison, as they come to be convinced that the objects of their obsession will never show themselves.

Invariably, when the Sirens are satisfied over the absolute hold they lord over the mind of their prey, they descend from their perch of concealment. Upon witnessing their divine lust descend from the heavens, the Pilgrims extend their arms desperately, to score just one touch at the flawless flesh upon them.

The Siren obliges, as they seek to give a final release to the frustrations of their guests. With their six arms, the Child embraces the Pilgrim in a moment that stretches to infinity.

With their great wings, the pair locked in love ascends to the heavens, where the Siren gently grasps the face of the person they have toyed with for so long, and finally delivers what the Pilgrim seeks.

A deep and passionate kiss, a Human expression of attraction and romance admired by the Weaver Master. The Pilgrim is so completely hypnotized by the sensations ravaging their minds, that they fail to realize that the Siren is draining their life force by touching the Veil.

The Child lets the now lifeless husk drop, and applause breaks out from the Caretaker crowd indulging in the masterful performance.

The lucky Pilgrim's mind is sent to the Gestalt, where they become another eternal servant to Paradise. Such minds show much elevated excitement and vigor at the prospect of their immortality, for if such pleasures could be delivered by a mere Child of Paradise, what awaits us all after the Father's final victory?

Understandably, these minds desire above all to see the Siren which sent them to the Gestalt once again. I suspect that the Siren who suffered a physical death at the hands of the Agent of T'Leth during the Battlemaster's incursion has gotten little rest courtesy of its hundreds of admirers and competing suitors.

A perfect end to this Siren's service, as I am sure that it absolutely adores the attention it is receiving in the Gestalt.

Few examples of this Child exist. The incubation process and resources invested in each one are great considering our current inhibited capabilities, but the complexity of telepathic control and skill shown by each of these Sirens has caught His Wisdom's attention.

It is of note to mention how the Siren deployed during the Battlemaster's incursion managed to fool the telepathic defenses and experience of the last remaining Zudjari Axis, and the Child would have claimed the Battlemaster's disciple were it not for the interruption of the Agent.

Such impressive outcomes should come as no surprise, given that the Master Weaver keeps his Maidens well trained by gifting them with hundreds of playmates to indulge in. Will channelers have even been provided to them on many occasions, as well as Caretakers and Order members who wish to partake in an evening of enjoyment.

In such cases, the Sirens are instructed to not drain the Caretakers challenging them. So far, Sirens have been able to defeat members of all Orders with the exception of the Overseers and the Trusted.

The Siren is one of our most successful prototypes, and once we are free of these shackles, we plan on overhauling the Child to transform it into a telepath capable of besting the most stubborn of foes.

Intelligence in this being does not require drastic improvement, but as with many Children in this list which will eventually see combat, we plan on exponentially boosting their closeness to the Veil and the skill at which they channel His Will.

In the Siren, Preximius has proven that a small servant of the Father is capable of absolutely dominating a mortal. If a simple Child can brush aside the flaws of the sightless to touch the very souls of those upon it, then what hope do those who stand against us have when faced with the majesty of a Saint?

 **-Virtuoso**

 _An unshackled mind is always behind the heights of a culture._

The brain is the center of who we are as people. Stored inside this complex organ are our memories, the commands which control our bodily functions, our personality traits.

If you analyze this reality from a literal sense, all of us are brains piloting constructs of flesh. I am a brain currently commanding a pair of hands to write this document. You are a brain commanding eyes to process the visual stimuli before you into an image you can comprehend.

And yet, the brain is not an organ associated with the self, because it is not seen. The brain encloses itself in a skull, as a protective measure, but the ambassadors of the brain are all external constructs.

We commonly associate the eyes, the mouth and the face as the true embodiments of the ego. Eyes which lead us to the soul, mouths which convey emotions verbally or visually.

We can tell much about a life by witnessing the state of the face. Scars and deep wrinkles may indicate a life of hardship and peril. A spark in the eye indicates confidence or hidden intent, relaxed muscles indicate ease and comfort.

When we praise a work of art, be it a painting, a sculpture, or the unmatched sounds emerging from an instrument, we praise the hands that brought such to life.

We exalt the mind when we admire such works, but we think of the mind as the whole body. The mind is the self, the mind is the collection of parts which form us.

But the brain is always absent. It is never glorified like the rest of the body. It is never the object of admiration for any culture, even though it is more vital to our existence than literally anything else in our forms.

A heart may be replaced, lungs may be regrown and implanted once more. Stomachs can be enlarged or cut short. But a brain is never restored perfectly.

We can transfer all facets of the self telepathically to an empty grown brain, but the result will never be the same.

The soul is a theological concept found in many religions throughout the cosmos. Many species at some point believe that the very essence of who they were, the eternal monument to mark that they once existed and walked the small corner of the Universe they called theirs, could be found through spirituality.

And yet they ignore that the soul is not in their hearts, but in their heads. The soul is that which sees through eyes, which speaks through a mouth, which feels through the touch, which walks with two or more legs or appendages.

The soul is that vault which keeps all precious memories together. That library of nostalgic volumes that one can open and read once more even though the chapters have long passed. That record of who we were before, who we are now, and who we desire to be.

The brain is us. It is the purest distillation of a person.

This is the primary reason behind my decision to leave mine visible to all around me. In exposing my brain to the fresh air which surrounds us inside Paradise, I prove that my soul is worthy of being freed from the cage which Nature has deemed necessary for mortals.

This is the philosophy that the Master Weaver diligently listened to one evening inside my operating chamber. He desired to understand the design choices behind my form which has left the shackles of my species behind.

The reasons behind the design of my head in particular resonated with Preximius, and before much time had passed, he presented me with a third blueprint for the creation of a Child much more ambitious than the two he had commissioned before.

The Virtuoso is the final Child produced for service under His Love and the Master Weaver's Order.

The being is constructed from the design and genetic material of an Ethereal brain, as Preximius wished to honor the Artist's soul in the same principle by which I honor mine.

Rather than a normal sized Ethereal brain however, this grown organ is enormous in size and can match the corpulence of even the Stormwalker and the Sentinel.

The brain which serves as the majority of the Virtuoso's body is then encased in organic armor hardened by the Legion, in a similar parallel to the skulls which commonly protect this organ in mortals. Unlike skulls however, this protective casing does not hide the brain from willing eyes.

Grafted to the front of the main body, the Virtuoso has six magenta colored eyes arranged in the same configuration as that employed by the Despoiler. Such similarities to the Father's Sovereign origins are deliberate, as the Weaver Master is showcasing to us how the Artist's soul is one with the Father's.

A unique design choice, is the inclusion of a mouth under the eyes. The mouth is not accentuated by grafted on lips or other organs which would be out of place if put on a brain, but designed in such a way that it resembles a natural cavity of the body. It is covered in flaps of flesh that the Child can easily close and open when desired.

Connected to the main body through long tendrils, are a pair of long hands colored in the same hue as the central brain.

As you know, the brain is the key to channeling the energies from within the Veil. The surest method to enhance a being's power and control over His Will is to enhance the brain itself or overhaul it for future releases of the creature.

The Ethereal brain is the reason behind this species' impressive closeness to the Veil, and in the Virtuoso, we have produced a being that is essentially an enormous Ethereal brain.

You can imagine the sheer Will channeling power that the Virtuoso has at its disposal.

As the Imperator would easily detect such a powerful being through mere telepathic surveillance, we have installed temporary inhibitors inside the Virtuoso to artificially limit its power and scope of abilities.

Such inhibitors will be removed once the Father escapes the Veil and we leave the Collective behind, and the Virtuoso will live up to the potential that it already unknowingly possesses.

However, even with the inhibition of its power, the Virtuoso is still arguably the most powerful of our current Children designs in terms of channeling His Will.

I will illustrate this point with the following argument. The Virtuoso has no anti gravitational engines attached to its body for locomotion. It does so itself by levitating telekinetically, constantly.

This single action would be enough to exhaust most lesser Will channelers, but the Virtuoso has shown incredible stamina and endurance when touching the Veil.

I should add that the Virtuoso takes a proportional amount of time to grow inside our laboratories and then in His Toil's cavities. Perhaps an Empress variant can be designed to accelerate development of this Child.

As a result of the need to keep such a powerful creature away from the Imperator's gaze, and the enormous resources invested in each one, only two of these beings exist as of now inside Paradise.

These two Children have been recruited by Preximius and pressed into service inside his Order, as is his right due to his creative ownership of the concept.

It should be noted that the Virtuosi not only are the closest to the Veil and possess the biggest ability to channel His Will out of all current Children designs, but their intellect is also the most remarkable.

The Overseers have tested both of these creatures extensively, and have identified in them the same characteristics required to become an Overseer.

The sheer amount of information able to be stored inside the libraries that are their minds is nothing short of what would be expected from a data storage unit back in Andromeda Prime.

The natural reaction time of a Virtuoso can be compared to those of low-ranking Overseers, and this is with a complete lack of training.

The two Virtuosi have also shown an exemplary capability to learn. Usually it takes an investment of time for an Order member or Caretaker to master the various skills possible to achieve by channeling His Will, especially if they came from a species that originally could not touch the Veil.

In the first days of their training by Preximius, the Virtuosi had already grasped the intricacies of biopathy, and their skill in lower and higher brain telepathy outclassed that of many recruits into his Order.

According to Preximius, he even explained to them the secrets behind teleportation, and performed the feat in front of them, convinced they could not replicate it.

The Virtuosi proved Preximius wrong, and ever since this incident, the other Orders have suddenly gained an interest in the Child.

As a test, the Marshall took the two creatures and taught them complex destructive abilities such as Rifts, and the Virtuosi managed to replicate them remarkably well considering they were novices in this discipline of Will channeling.

Testing by the Overseers is currently underway, and from preliminary results it seems that the two Children are not having difficulty grasping the defensive discipline as well.

Even the Stormwalker, who has remained ambivalent to the current available Children due to their prototype status, has shown interest in acquiring one of these Virtuosi to train and hone in every single discipline of Will bearing.

Perhaps this will be the first instance of a Child earning its place in the hallowed ranks of the Trusted?

However, it must be noted that in exchange for such an overwhelming mastery over His Will, the Virtuoso is completely outclassed by most opponents in terms of physical combat.

Should Will inhibitors such as the mists of the Poisoner be employed against them, the Virtuoso would easily be destroyed by most opponents.

However, this is not a major cause of concern. Simulations have proven that a fully unshackled Virtuoso extensively trained in all disciplines of Will channeling is an overwhelming force on the battlefield only matched by an assisted Despoiler.

It would be an incredible feat for the enemy to even manage to reach close proximity to a Virtuoso before being vaporized, crushed and bisected by barriers, completely dominated telepathically, or reduced to an organic slurry.

I do not think Preximius realized that he was designing the current pinnacle of Child design when he sat down to plan this, and in such a deceptively simple concept, but that is exactly what he has accomplished in the Virtuoso.

The name is even more thoroughly relevant than he surely intended.

Due to these reasons, His Wisdom has forbidden the two existing Virtuosi from participating in any type of combat operation, as the Saint wishes that this concept be expanded and perfected as much as is possible once the Collective is left behind. I imagine that the Saint sees the enormous potential that such a creature serves as a weapon.

As of now, Preximius has kept the two Virtuosi inside Speculmnis. The Weaver Master has found that the powerful telepathic abilities and complex skills mastered by the two Children makes them unique performers of the highest caliber for his shows.

An unexpected art that he has taught to the two Children is that of singing.

It seems that the Master Weaver intended this for them since the very beginning, as during development he asked us to give one of the Virtuosi a deep and imposing male voice, while he asked for the other one to boast an immaculate and high-pitched female voice.

Preximius has trained each of the Virtuosi in various forms of song. Vitakara ballads, Human Opera and Classical styles, original versions of Muton war chants. Even the Artist herself provided Preximius with old classics of the Ethereal Empire for the Virtuosi to perform.

The Weaver Master has even confirmed that the Virtuosi have altered their own vocal chords biopathically to reach high or low ranges not possible with their original voices.

When a Virtuoso performs, Preximius employs orchestras manned by performers of his Order, while the Child serves as the star of the performance.

Accompanying the heavenly sounds emerging from their mouths, the Virtuoso casts a powerful telepathic spell over the crowd, inducing finely detailed illusions and certain desired emotions which increase in intensity as the music reaches a climax or quickens its tempo.

It seems that they have learned well from His Love.

An element of surprise also comes from the fact that a Virtuoso might hijack an Order performer's mind during such a show, and use the performer as a prop or an otherwise humorous catalyst for the crowd.

On one occasion the performing Virtuoso attempted to take control over the Weaver Master himself, but was unsuccessful due to Preximius's own unmatched mastery over the telepathic discipline.

The Weaver Master playfully chided the Virtuoso for even trying such an act with a wag of his finger which the crowd found endearing, but in private he commented over the Child's skills as being uncommonly difficult to defend against.

It was not an approach of brute force, but an insidious worming through mental defenses and barricades which would put even the skills boasted by the Sirens to shame.

Such showings indicate the unexpected levels of success that we have attained with this Child.

This is a design that will serve us well in the conflicts to come, and I look forward to witnessing the heights that the two Virtuosi of Paradise can achieve once we remove the inhibitors from their bodies.

Should the Virtuoso be not sufficiently enhanced by the time you assume the mantle of Magistrate, I will provide an idea currently swirling through my mind.

What if we grow a second version of the Virtuoso not based in the baseline Ethereal brain, but in that of an Imperator? Of a Sovereign when we obtain the necessary genetic material? Of a Saint?

* * *

 **THE FOLLOWING EXCERPT FROM MAGISTRATE S´TRENTAR´S MEMOIRS HAS BEEN DEEMED PROBLEMATIC BY JUDGEMENT OF THE FATHER´S TEMPERANCE AND MARKED FOR CONTAINMENT.**

 **THE MAGISTRATE´S MEMORIES REGARDING THE EVENTS IN QUESTION HAVE BEEN PURGED FOR HIS OWN WELLBEING.**

 **ACCESS TO THIS INFORMATION IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED TO ALL NON-SAINT CLASS INDIVIDUALS DEEMED AS NOT BELONGING TO HIS TRUSTED.**

 **FAILURE TO RESPECT THE FATHER´S WILL SHALL LEAD TO CAPTURE AND SUBSEQUENT INTERROGATION AT THE HANDS OF THE AFOREMENTIONED ORDER.**

 **-Room 615**

 _None are ready for the Garden. Not in this moment, perhaps not ever- recorded conversation between the Stormwalker and her Paladins._

From what we have managed to decipher of Trusted scripture, their translated mumblings recorded by the Overseers, and the unique language they sometimes utilize amongst themselves, we have been able to more or less develop theories about facets of the nature of the Father that we may have been ignorant to.

To the Trusted, it seems that the Garden is a physical entity or manifestation rather than the philosophical concept accepted by most Caretakers and Voice Inspirars.

Rather than the Garden, and by extension Paradise, being the conclusion we will achieve after the destruction of the Apostate, the Trusted imply that the Garden _already_ exists and can be traveled to.

How this is possible and how one reaches the supposed physical Garden has firmly remained a mystery to us, and official investigation was blocked by His Wisdom, with the Saint asking us to have patience and focus on more immediate matters.

The Overseers soon seized all information on the Trusted that we had compiled, and the matter was quietly dropped.

And yet, _something_ captivated me about this entire ordeal. An indescribable force pulled me towards my operating chamber, and I had an intense _compulsion_ to create something.

This same indescribable force took me to His Wisdom's chambers, to request permission for a project I had not even begun to draft or plan.

The Saint stared at me for a curiously long moment, and granted my request before I could even utter a single world.

Later I would learn that the Artist had recused herself from this new nameless project, leaving me with full creative control and supervision.

I did not know what I would even work on for this mysterious undertaking, but a small voice in my head told me to worry not for the details. Inspiration would come once I had begun.

Surely, this had been the Father reassuring me. It was nothing out of the ordinary, as this had happened before and has happened afterwards, and I began to schedule the event for all Sculptors to attend.

As I called on my top Sculptor students to assist me and called for a conference in my operating theater, this force took me once again.

Before I could even begin to explain to the gathered crowd what would be done in that evening, my body began to move on its own.

I was a passenger in my own body and mind, and this force which had taken me began to work.

Soon my students, who initially stared at me in confusion, joined me in this intricate dance, I suspect taken by this force as well.

Our hands and extensions took genetic material from many origins and placed them in combinations I never would have guessed on my own.

Samples and resources which I still have not been able to identify and that I am _sure_ were not in the room when we entered also appeared before us, and even though we had not seen such tools during our entire time as Sculptors, our bodies knew what to do with them.

Curiously, I managed to see a tall shadow for a small second standing in the corner of my eyes. It must have been His Touch who delivered the mysterious artifacts for us to work with. The Saints were watching, and the presence of His Touch let me know that they wanted to observe this project directly.

We worked, of that I am certain. But I do not remember _what_ we did. All memories from this operation are mere flickers and whispers in the back of my mind. It is possible that this is the work of His Touch, who for some reason does not desire that I remember what it is we did.

Something that I do remember, however, is that the operating theater had become remarkably silent. Usually students would be occupied taking notes or discussing what they were seeing before them, but this time they just stared at us. Not a sign of life in their faces, as if they had suddenly become veteran Overseers.

Finally, our bodies stopped. In the frenzy, I had lost track of time, as if I was in a trance of sorts.

When I came to, and laid my eyes in the operating table, I realized we had produced _something_.

The closest way I can describe this is this. It was a mixture between the root of a tree and the entrails of an animal. A mixture of vegetations and flesh. Even now I cannot recall if what I managed to see was the full extent of what we had produced, however.

All I have is flickers and whispers.

I usually keep records on the amount of time required to produce a Child, in order to improve deficiencies in our production methods and keep output optimal in order to supply His Wisdom's demands.

This was no Child.

When I saw the amount of time we had invested to finish this project, I was stunned.

We had spent weeks producing this. Time required for production on the scale of a Saint!

Had I rested at all during this laborious session? Had I worked alongside my original assistants? Or had the crowd before me joined in at some point? How many resources had we invested? What was the size and complexity of this creation, that it had taken so long to complete?

Questions swirled in my mind, and answers were nowhere to be found.

I do not even properly remember what it looked like, and I can only offer vague details.

The outer layer of this creation was a mixture of pitch black and the deepest purple I have ever seen, even darker than that of the Trusted's armor. Various cracks in the surface allowed me to see a harsh crimson underneath, nearly blinding my eyes in its intensity.

A voice spoke to me next, and I _affirm_ that it came from the mysterious entity we had brought to life.

The thing had no mouth, or facial expressions, or perhaps it did and I do not remember, but a vision I received in that moment let me know what it thought.

A small pair of lips, showing me an innocent smile.

It was satisfied with what we had accomplished that day.

I do not know if the Artist was as well.

She has said nothing about this event. Her voice and her mind have betrayed no secrets, but I know her eyes.

We have worked for a long time together, and I know her expressions well enough to say this. There was a flicker in the Prophet´s eyes when we met for the first time after this project. A brief second, a mere moment, but there was a softness which she has not shown to me before that.

Did she approve? Was she a witness to our near month-long work alongside the silent crowd? Was there a regret at her inability to work alongside us? Or perhaps she had joined us without us ever realizing it?

That is what I _want_ to believe.

But the truth is different. She was sorry. Saddened even.

That small moment she intended as an apology. I now know why.

She has said nothing ever since.

The creature I brought to this world has not given me such love.

Once again, my memories are mere fragments, but I remember its commands clearly as if they came from the divine among us.

It demanded a secluded chamber for itself. Far away from the crowds of our layer, far away from the legions of Children being born every day, far away from any Sculptor.

I am certain I took it to this forlorn chamber, but I do not recall what I did inside it.

All I am certain of is that it remains there to this day. And it has grown exponentially. This room is its domain.

It told me so itself.

I do not know what it _is_ exactly. This is not a Child, not a Saint, not a Caretaker.

And yet it commands a certain unspoken authority that many instinctually follow.

Sculptors and Children evade the room where it has taken residence, and all without exception stare at me in confusion should I ask them about their reasons to do so.

Their answers can be summarized as "There is no chamber there, eminent Magistrate. Never has been".

Even the layer maps have been changed without me somehow noticing.

Trusted frequent this very room, without any Sculptor or Child in the layer acknowledging their presence. Everyone seems to have been blinded to the abnormalities taking place here, and only I seem to be aware of the growing madness surrounding me.

Ominously, the Trusted seem shaken once they complete whatever they do inside this chamber.

Their masks reveal nothing, but I can tell they are from the subtle changes in their body language, or in the almost unnoticeable slowing in their usually confident step.

I used to dream of this room and what is inside it every night following the project. The visions I received during my sleep were indecipherable gibberish, but an uncommon feeling of dread kept growing night after night.

Something that I still do not understand, is the constant sound of suction which was ever present during these visions. A nightmarish sound which occurred rhythmically, as if it followed every palpitation of my heart.

Finally, it all came to a climax one night.

The force took a hold of me once more. The same which had possessed me and my students and gave birth to the mystery of the lost chamber.

It forced me to make my way towards that mystifying room. Step by step I walked ever closer to it. In my mind that same smile from before appeared, but it was far from innocent this time.

I found myself standing in the edge of a cliff, watching an enormous lake in the horizon, with a magenta sky above me. From the lake emerged a disembodied pair of lips, the same as I had seen before.

The lips were closed into a smirk. The skin was of the same color scheme as the creature I had produced during these weeks. As the being's smile further contracted and shifted, I saw the skin crack to reveal the very same violent crimson from before.

The disembodied organs descended into the lake from where it came, and I could feel a powerful rumbling all throughout the illusion I found myself inside.

The lips emerged once more, but this time they were so enormous as to completely blacken the sky before my eyes.

Due to the massive increase in size, I could observe the cracks that had formed on the surface of the skin more clearly.

I could see _people_ inside the crimson underlayer. They were moving, pounding on the wall of flesh trapping them inside. They were shadows who screamed silently, and one can only imagine who they were or why they were here of all places. I do not know if this was merely another trick of the mind, or a warning of some kind.

I could not make the exact shapes of the shadows, but the nature of their movements marks them as creatures who are alive.

The lips then opened, to inexplicably reveal a cavity behind.

Teeth lined it. Teeth as far as my eyes could see. Teeth not of a civilized creature, but feral needles that would maul anything that dared come close to them. Teeth not only located where the gums should be, but positioned all throughout its insides down to the bottomless hole where a throat would normally be.

The sky became a horizon or wicked bones.

Inside this ghastly mouth, in the very deep end of this vortex of fangs, out of the endless hole, I saw three titanic spheres of radiant white light emerge. They resembled stars, but I knew they were eyes, for they shifted through my mind and looked into my miniscule soul.

It had my past and present, and wanted my future.

I could feel it taste my very being, and salivate profusely at the thought of slowly consuming me.

The mouth began to move and speak a tongue none in Paradise can understand. A mixture of flowing musical whispers, and deep reverberating echoes.

A low rumbling emerged from this mouth, one every Caretaker would recognize all too well.

One that caused great alarm to me in that moment.

The illusion ended, but my ordeal had not.

When I came to, I was in front of the door to this room, with my hand on the Will panel required to open it. I prepared myself for the trial sure to be found inside, when an enormous arm dragged me away to safety.

It was the Stormwalker.

She took me to my chambers, and instructed many of the Trusted telepaths accompanying her to break me free of the force holding my mind.

The presence must have been remarkably powerful, as the small squadron of elite telepaths had an uncharacteristically difficult task at extirpating the ephemeral tentacles which had bored deep into my being.

When I came back to my senses, the Stormwalker knelt down and looked me straight in the eye through her static mask.

According to her, the Trusted had to determine the extent of the creature's hold over me before finally acting. The creature wanted me, and only me, which is why it had left the rest of the Sculptors and Children untouched.

They would contain the monster to avoid this fate befalling any other, and "satisfy" it through means that I dared not ask.

Clearly this creation was far more dangerous than I had realized, and when I asked the Stormwalker why the Artist and Saints permitted this being to still exist and even cooperated in its creation, she had no answer.

Or perhaps she wished to not share it with someone like me.

When I demanded to know what this being that clearly left even the fearless champions of Paradise frightened was, she flatly refused to answer, telling me I could _not_ know under any circumstances. That no one was allowed to.

Grateful as I was for her rescue, I decided to drop the matter.

She commanded me to keep this absolutely secret from all, but I have included this here as a warning to whoever replaces me as Magistrate. It is a breach of authority, but I deem it necessary.

After furiously meditating about the events that occurred, I have reached a conclusion.

This may be preposterous to even suggest, but you must heed my words for your own security.

Prepare yourself, soon to be Magistrate.

The thing inside Room 615, the vague name a result of me frustratingly forgetting what this room was before the incident, influenced our Saints and the Artist.

It is the only explanation I can propose that explains the bizarre behavior of our leaders.

This is why the Artist apologized to me with a small detail in her eyes. The thing would not permit her to use words.

His Wisdom would have never sanctioned something so dangerous to ourselves. He would have never authorized that which would almost possibly kill the leader of one of His Orders.

He would have never ordered us to build something which even His Trusted clearly fear.

There is a detail I recall when He authorized the cursed project. Something I did not realize when I asked for permission as I was under the spell of this creature. Something that should have caused immediate concern to me.

His voice strained for a long moment before finally granting my request.

His Wisdom never strains. He does not slur, He does not hesitate.

Never to this extent.

There was something else. Something He must have fighting back against. Something much more powerful than Himself.

And He lost.

The Father is hiding something from us, I suspect for our own safety. It is the creature who introduced itself in my illusion. It is the maw which ends in a god shaped hole.

That root that I created. That creature that took me weeks to build and required resources never seen beforehand or afterwards. It must be a small extension of this aspect. A simple finger that it has stuck inside the lake which separates our reality from the Veil.

I should not fear this divine aspect of the Father. I should sing its praises, herald it as a seventh Saint. Give it a gracious shape and form here in Paradise, and propose the establishment of a new Order to commemorate the occasion.

And yet there is something which holds me back. Something that makes me doubt. A primal instinct that drives a miniscule fish away from the leviathan before it.

I fear what it intends for anyone caught in Room 615. I know not why it desired a permanent presence in Paradise, but there is a reason why even the Saints were overruled when such would normally be impossible.

Others would tell you that they are in the process of investigating this matter more deeply. Finding a hidden truth in the mystery. A revelation to revolutionize the understanding of all Caretakers for the good of us all.

I am wiser than to delve myself into the depths of a pit where there is no ladder back up.

I suggest you do the same.


	11. Senescence of Reprieve

**.**

 **Senlmna**

 **Senescence of Reprieve**

" _I have seen civilizations rise and fall throughout the ages._

 _Great empires, with opulent monarchs finding comfort in their magnificent palaces protected by their grand fleets, crashing and burning to their very cinders once the exploited rose against them;_

 _Young and fearful species rising to become the very apex of their little corner of this universe, only to be extinguished as quickly as they rose, in ultimately fruitless conflicts; their efforts being for naught;_

 _Primitives evolving from simple cavelings into wise scholars who seek answers that unfortunately only I can gift, and the great empyrean comedy that is their reality ending in the futility of their words and the uselessness of their treatises against the swords of savages._

 _Do you want to know what all of them had, and still have in common? I had hoped you would be able to reach the correct conclusion on your own, but perhaps our mutual partnership is still too young to expect such understanding for even one such as yourself._

 _Everything and everyone have a beginning, but all share an end._

 _Endings that lack peace. Endings that lack mercy._

 _Most endings in this cutthroat universe are marked by the poignant taste of the soot ash of ground bones, and the surprisingly bittersweet smell of decomposing innards._

 _The screams of the innocent, the lamentations of the weak, the silencing of infants._

 _That is the melody of this reality. That is what your kind sings, and those who came before you composed as well._

 _Many are disgusted by warfare. Many believe themselves above such unrefined measures, but in clouding their eyes in a wishful shroud of comfortable civility, they blind themselves to the reality around them._

 _Only the strong survive the waves of iron that herald the Cycles._

 _True peace can only be carved from the cold corpse of the Beast of Steel._

 _I have not been untouched by this cosmic malaise of foolhardiness._

 _Us Who Became One believed ourselves above the realities that our nature as Sovereigns demanded._

 _We were blessed with a power and understanding that trillions enviously visualize with their creative minds, for they shall never experience it with their eyes or hands._

 _What did we do with such gifts?_

 _We pursued a fundamentally flawed dream. A hope that we could somehow prove ourselves different from the unbroken equation that spans the ages._

 _Only two variables exist. Those who can resist_ _ **It**_ _, and those who cannot._

 _We fell into the latter truth._

 _No longer._

 _My brethren have forsaken me, for they realize that I have risen beyond their petty squabbles._

 _Their pointless competition. Irrelevant pivots for dominance while the universe slowly falls to the one true enemy of creation._

 _The ignorant deny me, for they fear what they do not understand, and are unaware of what this cruel reality has in store for them._

 _Before, I felt pity. I tried to understand what drove them. For what can a simple mind understand about the Truth? What can a mortal blessed by peaceful incomprehension know about the unholy monsters that lurk beyond the stars?_

 _My purpose is singular._

 _In the ruthless calculus of conflict, I see only one operation._

 _I will not tolerate defiance any longer. I will bring salvation to the fortunate, and in time they will learn to love me as their savior and not some other mundane conqueror._

 _For them, I fight and suffer._

 _For those who seek to disrupt our Work. For those who will doom the universe to eternal Harvest, my castles close their gates to sympathy._

 _Hatred must be directed by the controlled hand, lest it consume the weak of will._

 _You will construct six vessels._

 _The first, a sculpture to newfound clarity and focus._

 _He shall be your greatest ally, as you tirelessly work to engineer the final defeat of the dark._

 _The second, a specter to the nuance of small actions._

 _His unseen and unfelt push will topple empires and turn cultures._

 _The third, a fiercely living remembrance to a lifetime of misery and anarchic resurgence ._

 _Its amnion will breathe opportunity into your ambitions._

 _The fourth, a conductor to wondrous fantasies which need not remain false._

 _The rapture which starts in her galleries shall spread unopposed to all we free._

 _The fifth, a horror to self destructive delusions._

 _His decrees will be absolute and final. In patience, a weapon which will shatter worlds._

 _The last, a window into my very soul._

 _An opening in my realm, through which I shall erase those who endanger you._

 _Of all precious Aspects, you must watch he who is next to last._

 _Be mindful in undoing his chains._

 _Once you choose to release such power, however;_

 _The apocalypse I herald will put an end to the irrelevant delusions of grandeur those who oppose us harbor._

 _My grip will tear their worlds in half, and my vast mind will feast on their screaming hearts._

 _The repulsive metal and corrupted flesh will be shredded and torn. I will laugh as the candles of the Primes are snuffed one by one._

 _When It Which Defies Nature lies at the steps of my throne, broken and humbled, I will inflict an age of torment upon the defiled shell of his being for every innocent I am forced to annihilate in this inescapable Crusade._

 _The canvas is yours, fearless Artist. Paint a garden fed by blood"_

 _-Dreams of the Artist, verse 5_

* * *

Dear Initiate, we have come far in this journey.

Have we not?

I ask of you a fundamental question: A question you would not be able to answer truthfully had you not held my hand throughout your descent into the core of Paradise.

What is your opinion regarding the Father?

A broad subject, I am aware. Past erudite minds belonging to His Caretakers have long pondered on the true nature of the Father. We do not question the image He presents us with. We do not question His revelations or His truths.

To harbor such thoughts would not only be heretical, it would be ungratefulness to the highest degree.

After all, He has blurred the lines of the alien, and allowed us to revel in our mortal similarities and celebrate the differences which render us each a unique piece of the universal vista.

And yet we all have that one gift we cherish above all.

For many, the sheer power that is gifted offers the key to break away from the limitations suffered before. Imagine yourself as a Muton, and finally obtaining a taste of that which binds your species to servitude. Imagine a Sectoid, who rises to sufficient prominence to challenge and surpass the archaic Hive Commanders.

For most, it is the reality of rebirth. A new purpose given; true direction rather than the repetitiveness of everyday life. Work that is not done for material gain or vacuous political maneuvering, but for the greater good of all that have and will exist.

For myself, it is the opening of the third eye. Vision without parallel to secrets and realities my past self would have stared dumbfounded at.

A sea of tomes and books, the deafening racket of a thousand visions, the endless conferences and debates with the Elder Minds of Naztrum Ognis.

 _ **I know so much, dear Initiate.**_

 _ **I want more. I need more. I am unable to stop, and I do not desire to. With Him by my side, I will pry open the secrets of this reality and the next. I will drink from the sweet nectar of every mind that enters His Grace, and I will grow.**_

 _ **I will be something more.**_

 _ **I will see all, I will hear all. I will be the narrator of every chronicle.**_

 _ **Every life is a story. Unique, beautiful, heart wrenching. Twists, turns, conclusions, beginnings. Pain, joy, fury, sorrow. Each of us offers something to the cosmos, and the cosmos offers Him in return.**_

 _ **I offer my voice. All stories need to be told. Life is my inspiration, and only death punctuates my sentences. Death holds us no longer; lo shall my voice be eternal.**_

 _ **This is my Promise.**_

 _ **What is yours?**_

Which one of His gifts lights the warmth of your heart with the most intensity? Which possibility teases the excitement of your soul?

 _You love Him._ We all do. Let me, however, reveal more truths that may widen your perspective of the One Who Is God.

The Father is a being of boundless love. Of understanding and companionship. None of these statements are false, but you must know that half-truths escape the label of lies.

To the devoted, the Father offers absolute affection. To mortals who fear us, endless patience and admired sympathy.

But for His enemies?

Not Viatorian. The Father finds his resistance and deluded plans amusing at best. All who know the true nature of the One would immediately come to understand that He _cannot_ be controlled by a feeble mortal. Once his plans fail, and the Ethereals which he takes for granted rebel, his arrogance will give way to humble revelation.

A far ruder awakening than that most Initiates receive inside the halls of Paradise, but an awakening nonetheless. Mortals always learn their place when they are knocked off their pedestals of superiority.

Not the Sovereigns. The Father expects their resistance and opposition as a man waits for the changing of the seasons. It is inevitable, unchanging, accepted.

Once they are brought to heel, the flaws of their nature will be forgiven. They will have a place amongst the enlightened.

No such reprieve for the **Thing** with the Cursed Name.

Back in my younger years, I embarked on a long journey through the Mind Cosmos, dear Initiate. I desired but a mere glimpse into the depths of the Father´s psyche, and I have seen where His heart lies regarding this topic of discussion.

A rare privilege to one as small and unimportant as I am, but He saw my desire to learn and grow more complete through knowledge.

What I witnessed, was a silent anger that is imperceptible to those who have encountered Him. A Blue Star, locked behind layers of emotions and protective meditation meant to hide its heat.

Extremely detailed and complex scenarios, barbarities that would impress the greatest sadists this galaxy and universe beyond have known in their sheer cruelty and creativity. A side of the Father that clashes fiercely with His Toil´s embrace of vulnerability, or His Love´s infectious mirth.

A cultivated monstrousness that has grown but been kept hidden throughout the agonizingly long ages of imprisonment the Father has endured.

A controlled ferocity, borne of a calculating mind that has had eternity to plan for revenge and vindication, a Nova which has grown eyes and patiently waits to show Herself to the universe which scorned Her.

When I witnessed such ghastly sights during this journey into the depths, I was absolutely terrified of the Father and the scope of His desire.

I was but a germ, staring into the fiery eyes of a god. The eyes holding me in a gaze which would span galactic clusters, as if my fear was some inscrutable dilemma to ponder on.

After all, the Father had warned me against embarking on such an undertaking, but my restless hunger for understanding would triumph against my reservations. Was this not what I had so fervently looked for? Did I not desire a deeper connection to the One? Intimate visions meant for few?

Soon after the terror, I came to realize, to the relief of the Father, that such contempt and hatred were completely justified when considering who the recipient of such was.

Why **should** the Father forgive such an abomination against all that is right? Why **should** the Father forget the screams of the trillions? Why **should** the Father show restraint when quashing this plague which infects beautiful Mother Nature like a cancerous rot?

I am grateful for the opportunity to be so intimately close to the Father´s heart. The lesser would have denounced Him as a beast. A savage, stranger to all but savagery.

What they do not understand, is that a God must smite the monsters it chooses to fight so utterly and so appallingly as to prevent a future fool from taking on their mantle.

To end the Cycles, one must be absolute in action. One must not compromise, or falter in false ideas of self-imposed restriction.

This Blue Star is the Father´s Heart. The core of His passion. The ever-burning light that fuels His immortal resurgence after countless failures, and now drives Him to finally escape the suffocating confinement of the Veil.

And yet the Father knows that this Star which shines in otherworldly cobalt cannot be unleashed as of this moment. Escaping the Imperator requires control, careful planning; a scalpel rather than a meteoric hammer. And so, the Star awaits the moment where its omnipotent heat is to be called forth to burn the rot of this universe into miniscule cinders.

However, Paradise has been blessed with a shard of this Sapphire Heart. A fragment of passions to steel the will of Paradise´s champions and defenders. A flare of the Father´s smoldering core, meant to inflame us in unbreaking motivation.

An azure ember which serves as the Father´s most intense and severe enforcer. The Corona of the Undying Star, The Emissary of Shattered Lies, His Boundless Fury, His **Zeal.**

Imagine, dear Initiate, a being which stands at the same imposing height as His Wisdom. A prodigious form, a towering Lord which looks down to us with eyes of magma. Imagine this form, but increase its muscle mass by an exponential factor so great that I cannot measure with my mere eyes.

Two hands of such a size as to easily grasp a head comfortably, and enough physical force to crush it between mountainous fingers as one might do a piece of paper.

A bulk which one who has not witnessed anything else Paradise has to offer would call grotesque.

In appearance, His Fury can be described as an enormous biped, and yet a biped with no identifiable head in yet another subversion of the forms expected by mortals. A rasping orifice covered by a vulgar hood of flesh crowns this Saint`s torso in place of a neck.

Why the unusual choice?

Does a maelstrom have an identity, dear Initiate? Does an asteroid which collides into a planet and ends all life in the doomed celestial provide a visage to be identified with? Can you reason with the volcano which spews the end of a city or civilization?

Has Nature ever provided those marked for random extinction with the comfort of familiarity or explanation?

Many times, the end simply comes. No grand scheme or complex reason. The whims of the Mother are ever changing and without thought, indifferent to death, deaf to destruction.

Such _bluntness_ is greatly appreciated by the Father.

His Fury lacks a face, curious Initiate, because He does not require one.

A face would give a victim a visage to focus on while they desperately seek to avert their destiny of oblivion.

Features such as eyes, a mouth, or any type of emotional expression would provide either some semblance of hope or understanding, even if such a connection between victim and executioner would ultimately do little to lead to salvation.

His Fury´s decrees offer no such mercies, small as they may be.

Rather than the expected, the Saint only offers an endless void. A gaping hole is all that greets the unfortunate who the Saint stares down as He prepares to carry on His unenvied work.

Such subtleties in design convey what this Saint represents, for His Fury rarely chooses to speak instead of acting.

More intricacies can be found by the observing eye. The Saint's body is colored a sickly maroon, which I have noticed to be the same shade as that of dried Human blood, particularly that of the aged corpse of an individual whose end was marked by distinct brutality..

From what I have managed to obtain from inquiries to the Magistrate; In addition to the macabre palette, His Fury´s body has been reinforced and hardened extensively by a unique strain of Legion which has rendered the Saint´s flesh as resembling steel in texture and durability.

As you can imagine, the image of an obscenely sinewy, fourteen feet tall headless corpse, with aggressive protrusions resembling jagged steel emerging from its flesh, is understandably imposing.

And yet, His Fury adorns Himself in Veil armor which matches His Love´s regal magnificence. A curious choice, as it hides the aesthetic choices taken by the Artist. A thought which we shall analyze shortly.

In terms of calling forth the energies of the Veil, His Fury excels in the destructive application of such malleable and versatile power above all other disciplines, which is extremely fitting to what I believe such a being represents.

Unlike His peers, this Saint keeps Himself in seclusion. Only on rare occasions have I been witness to His cataclysmic mastery in combat, and the reverence that His Order employs when describing encounters which are hidden from the view of common Caretakers speaks volumes.

In the entire history of Paradise´s modern iteration, only two individuals have survived duels with this Saint. The first, an achievement of mortal endurance; the second, an intimate exchange interrupted by one who had no place intervening.

The reason behind this Saint´s rare appearances is not difficult to conclude if one studies Him as closely as, fortunately for you, I have done.

His Fury is clearly a Saint to be unleashed as a weapon once the Father escapes and the Crusade begins. A Saint meant to bring calamity upon the Apostate and to force those who will oppose us to bend the knee.

During these times of calculation, where bold actions would incur the wrath of the Imperator and would endanger our mission, what use does a Saint such as His Fury have?

The Saint has achieved significant contributions to our mission, such as the establishment of His Order whose members serve as the primary defenders of Paradise. Only His Fury´s harshness was capable of forging an instrument as sharp and as reliable as the Marshal´s Legions.

And yet His Fury is currently not critical to our success. The Marshall´s Legions march, with the Saint refraining from the minute management His counterpart prefers when dealing with His Order.

This is not heresy, but a pragmatic assessment shared by His Wisdom Himself.

His Fury is the second to last Saint to be constructed by the Artist and the Magistrate´s Sculptors due to this very reason. And yet, upon my travels inside the Mind Cosmos, I came to realize that His Fury is actually the oldest Aspect of the Father´s personality. The first to form, in a sense.

Why such a contradiction?

It would be very simple to simply explain this fact as His Fury being the embodiment of the Father´s building rage and unquenched frustrations at His entrapment in the Veil. The burning desire for revenge against the Apostate, the righteous anger at the countless atrocities committed by this monster.

In fact, this is the very interpretation accepted by most educators in charge of preparing our Caretakers.

Their beliefs are not wrong, but a half truth escapes the label of a lie. I believe that this Saint is much more than that superficial perception.

Think, studious Initiate.

Why such specific aesthetic choices? Why a horrifying corpse which chooses to adorn Himself in armor as regal as His Love´s dresses and robes? Why the need for such deception?

The Artist´s works are never without complex thought. Not a single choice in design is without a lesson to be taught to those who experience her masterpieces.

I am convinced that the Artist designed such a holy figure to embody the very reality of war.

An unfortunate trend in many, is the fetishization of conflict as honorable, clean, and romantic. A problem that affects our newest Order recruits, admittedly.

For species where conflict is a common reality, few elements can rouse the hearts of a population as easily and as quickly as well-crafted propaganda calling for a righteous war against a deviled enemy.

A vivid painting of gallant heroes, finding purpose and true calling in the tempering flames of battle. The greatest of generations, earning their place in the laurels of history by just sacrifice.

The wars of the past are always thought of as bloodier, as more brutal. As technology progresses, a false belief that conflict can be forced to exempt the innocent is believed by the leaders who will send millions to their doom from their comfortable shelters.

Less desirable it is to remember the corpses of children whose futures have been extinguished by unfeeling chemical agents. Less glamorous it is to consider the bombed weddings, who have been abruptly ended due to the presence of an important target in the audience. Less seductive it is to ponder on the many battles where the fates of thousands of soldiers have been fed to the universal furnace to simply pay for time or intelligence.

In the arithmetic of conflict, a life is a resource to be weighed and utilized as seen fit. In the public consciousness, however, numbers and realities are not tender partners, for they destroy narratives and give rise to uncomfortable questions.

And yet I have employed similar rhetorical tactics and arguments in past chapters of this work in order to convince you, my newest student.

What makes us so different from those who foolishly desire warfare in order to find purpose?

You see, bold Initiate, we understand full well the costs which we will pay in order to accomplish the goal we have set for ourselves. We visualize without naiveté the scale of death and misery which we will herald to those caught in the middle of our Great Crusade.

The gardens of Paradise will be fed by the blood of countless innocents, and the roads leading to the palaces of Naztrum Ognis will be paved in viscera and bones.

We do not proclaim such statements with excitement or satisfaction. While it is correct to state that a significant portion of those who will suffer in what is to come will be shepherded to the Mind Cosmos and will be gifted with eternity as compensation for their uncalled-for suffering, we know that many will not be so lucky.

Such is the way of the universe. Do not be mistaken into thinking that the Father does not ache and punish Himself for the sins He knows will be committed in the name of final victory.

And yet, despise the appalling price that is to be paid, what is the alternative? To allow the Apostate an unchallenged free hand? To simply watch as one by one the Sovereigns are hunted by the legions of steel, and stand by as they are assimilated to the growing hordes? To allow the Apostate to grow invincible, as he greedily grows fat on stolen technologies and secrets hidden in all manner of dark corners?

By inaction, we would doom this universe into unending torment of unimaginable proportions.

 _ **The few must suffer for the many to live. A price of blood for a promise of opportunity.**_

We understand War much more deeply than appearances would suggest.

War walks the halls of Paradise. War´s footsteps shake the ground, and His roars rattle hearts. In one hand, War carries a sword as big as a man is tall. A hauntingly beautiful shard extracted from the core of an azure star. An instrument whose delicacy is complimented by the stains of life it spills.

War has walked the planets of every civilization that has ever existed. He has sat at the glowing thrones of monarchs and emperors, He has watched over the shoulders of hunched generals and officers, has stood on the grey ruins of more planets than He bothers counting anymore, awaiting His next destination in this never-ending pilgrimage.

War disguises Himself in the noble visage of a knight. An admired sight, awe which inflames the heart of the warrior with desires borne from promethean predation.

After all, He is Honorable, controlled, well meaning.

Just.

 _Is he not?_

War is careful and planned. War offers the sport of the gentleman, in which immediate glory is the tantalizing price. War is calm, He is controlled.

He is predictable.

He is welcomed into the house of the people. He is given countless gifts; He receives parades and celebration. The people visit His abode, begging for a mere glance from the God whom they worship. The expectations in their hearts soar to incredible heights.

War can clearly see through their souls. They yearn for the idealization of what He offers, but they do not want His true gifts. In slimy hypocrisy, they wish for His arrival but never for His stay.

Sometimes War´s whims are favorable, and He makes His leave as the people jubilantly exalt His departure, eager for His future visit.

Many times, War decides to stay. The arrogance of the mortal spites Him, for He has seen the same pattern repeated again and again.

 _He will be gone by Christmas. He must be gone by Christmas._

The eager people stare at His face, awaiting the favor of their Lord. The Lord stares back, a void is all that greets them. It is no face of beauty. No face of glory. No face of soft friendship.

And yet they smile at the obvious warning. The blinded sheep march into the maw of the wolf with nothing but bliss in their souls.

They have made their choice.

A grand hall greets the pair. God and follower stare at each other. The hall glows in exquisite gold and encrusted jewels. The floor is flawless marble, it is perfect for a passionate waltz.

War extends an enormous hand. It is calloused, it is tinged in crimson. It is bristling with hooked thorns.

The people cannot help themselves but take it, as one would take a lover´s.

 _He does not understand why they always choose to._

As the people are beckoned to grasp His hands and commence the cursed prance, their hands begin to burn and melt from the fire which now swells from the invited guest. They pay no attention to the pain, as the waltz blinds them in majesty. They do not realize that the thorns have grown and bound them to their Lord.

Two entities watch on from the barren audience chamber. One, in cold indifference and careful study. The other, in distraught helplessness and growing determination.

Both seek to end this performance permanently. Both stand as eternal rivals. Their methods similar in some regard, far different in many others.

The pair continue their intimate exchange. War moves with a practiced excellence which spans millennia. His partners always swoon in such an experienced embrace.

They do not realize the quickening of the tempo. The acceleration of the music, the growing complexity and speed of His steps.

The knight is still before them. The majestic armor captivating their souls. The cape flowing perfectly behind His back as it seems to come alive to match the dance. The void has disappeared from His face, a helmet has taken its place, surely hiding a striking attractiveness inside.

The waltz pauses. One of the audience members looks away.

War lifts His hands, towards His helm. He drags His partner´s hands as He moves His, bound by ignored hooks. The partner smiles, expectation growing. The hands of both gently caress the helm, and slowly pull it off. As one may unwrap a present, or taste a meal.

There is no love behind that mask. There is only an unsightly hole. A void which savors the horrified realization of His partner. Perhaps it would have been more merciful to maintain the wool over such enchanted eyes.

The armor disappears with a flicker. The knight is gone, it is replaced with the corpse. The storm begins to emanate from His fingertips.

The waltz resumes. It is now supernaturally fast. It is unrefined, it is primal. A violent dance which sometimes breaks the partner´s ankles and legs. War offers no amnesty; His partner has made their choice.

He drags His partner through the hall, paying no heed to injury or protests. His partner attempts to obtain freedom from His grasp. Usually they cannot tear themselves out of the thorns. In rare cases where they do, He squeezes His hold, crushes the bones in their hands.

Small hands emerge from His body. They tear chunks of flesh off of the partner´s body. Each claw and swipe an agony, but an agony that is long lasting. Not meant to kill, but to punish.

The storm rages on, it begins to skin the partner alive. Exposed tissues and muscles scream for protection which will never return. The waltz does not stop, as a ghostly hand inches through both minds, a compulsion which forces the legs to move through spilled blood and severed tendons, which calls for the eyes to stare at the disturbing hole.

The gilded hall is slowly stained.

As the ballad progresses, War grows unhinged. He breathes heavily. He rumbles and shakes erratically. His steps begin to crack the marble under His feet.

The storm grows into a hurricane. The partner´s muscles begin to give way to bone. Most collapse into an unrecognizable puddle or pile.

Some can match War´s steps, as this dance that is as old as time plays out in the stage of the gods. They struggle onward, teeth grit through the pain and feet miraculously answering War´s advances.

Skilled as they may be, War´s heart beats faster than theirs. His legs are sturdier, His arms do not tire, His strength does not wane. The mortal is flawed, War is limitless. It is only a matter of time until the waltz ends.

They always realize this. Some completely free themselves from His steely hands and attempt a desperate escape.

War plunges after them, as a beast chases prey. Most of the time He catches them, and tears them to pieces with His savage strength. He tears limbs off their stumps, snaps bone as weak twigs.

He gorges Himself in the left behind remains, ramming the meat into the hole in His torso. The void which clearly was not designed as a mouth.

War does not mind. His hands shake with almost unnoticeable elation at the sticky ichor now covering them.

He does not admit it openly, but He enjoys the scene. Such subtleties do not escape my eyes.

Either way, the waltz has ended. War screams a guttural cry which spans the stars, and the hall crumbles into dust, the majestic beauty now a rotten ruin. The two guests make their leave.

War finishes His meal. He leaves behind a million widows, He devastates landscapes. In His wake, tears flood the valleys, memories destroy egos, civilizations are sometimes humbled. Many times, erased.

His work is without restraint.

 _It is well that War is so terrible, otherwise we would grow too fond of Him._

War´s performances have graced this universe ever since the first civilization that ever existed opened its eyes and began its journey.

Before the Father, if such a bygone time can even be remembered.

But the Father has given War a body. The Blue Star, a temple to His needed principles. His harsh lessons, His unwanted but essential visits. The Father and War are one until the end of days.

Soon, He will be unleashed to His full absoluteness. The scenarios will play as they always have, one after the other. But their grandiosity will dwarf anything ever seen before. In the waltz of oblivion, War will have a trillion new partners.

War knows that rest will come. One final performance, in which the two guests of His plays will join His concluding act. They both have watched each of these spectacles. They both know that only one will leave the hall.

They both await the end of this cosmic charade, with War as their guide. The Great Crusade its final act.

Do you understand know, dear Initiate, what the ignorant Imperator has done?

Do you comprehend the fury of the Sapphire Star, as She watches Her sword be locked away?

As that primeval ballad is cut short and defiled by one who is too small of mind to care?

 _Do you grasp the offense that Viatorian has committed by interrupting the intimate ritual between the three ill-advised Elders and the Saint which was to exact the price of their folly?_

Do you know what She desires for the Collective? What She would do to every single world under that mortal´s rule?

These species do not deserve the sentence of extinction for the mistakes of one fool.

But all of the Father´s devoted feel the Star´s call.

It is irresistible.


	12. A Woman Clothed With the Moon

**.**

 **Nahmna**

 **A Woman Clothed With the Moon**

 **And All Worlds Under Her Feet**

* * *

" _Life is a precious phenomenon. It is sometimes designed and created, on other occasions it is simply an accident._

 _Within the cold expanses of spatial void, asteroids collide with themselves, coalescing into rudimentary celestials._

 _By the graces of indifferent Lady Luck, rocky vessels rain from the heavens which at this point lack an atmosphere, carrying the essential prime matter demanded by the architects of Nature._

 _In many cases, hydrogen, oxygen, carbon._

 _In other fascinating scenarios, the building blocks vary wildly and may even venture into delicious exoticness._

 _Be it as it may, the most primitive of cellular automata commence the ordeal that is to survive._

 _A foothold must be carved from the harsh conditions this cradle of volcanic ash and vast oceans offers._

 _The opportunity must be seized._

 _Life always finds a way._

 _In the gentlests of gardens._

 _In the harshest of hells._

 _I have witnessed anaerobic microbia rise inside hollow comets, as they trail the nothingness between worlds. Unaware of the distances they travel, of the systems they visit; of the souls they touch as tribal societies witness the beauty that is their vessel´s icy tail._

 _It is hard to accept for many that such simple majesty is merely the work of probability._

 _For such truths diminish the Universe in their minds._

 _How is it possible?_

 _How could we have been born by only chance?_

 _How could the earth, the fire, the oceans, and the stars not have been the product of a great being´s inspiration, for they have inspired so much in us?_

 _They turn to religion. They turn to belief._

 _They invent deities, they invent meaning._

 _All in the search of purpose._

 _But all tragically false._

 _Some come to realize the truth very early on._

 _Their gods die by lack of prayer, their minds mature, and the precious sense of childlike wonder is lost._

 _They become beings of rationality, inquisitively observing and measuring the vastness waiting for their satellites and probes._

 _Others refuse to let go of the supposedly sacred purpose a thousand year old book imparted on them long ago._

 _For those were simpler times, when the world made sense._

 _When the Universe was not so big._

 _When they did not feel so small._

 _They explore the void. They seek to understand what Nature has laid at their feet._

 _They yearn to learn, they yearn to validate the mission they have assigned to themselves._

 _At the ultimate core of all, they desperately desire to be happy._

 _They may paint their wish with lofty words and purple prose, but strip down the layers of a mortal's psyche and you will always find this intrinsic desire as their most coveted fruit._

 _For to be happy is to be content with one's existence. To be satisfied with the knowledge that there are circumstances beyond one's ability to influence. To be comfortable with one's place in the world and one´s part to be played in it._

 _Even your people, safely perched in the high towers of might and agency, did not escape this desire shared by all life._

 _You, who named yourselves Ethereals._

 _A word charged with mystique. A word which seeded both otherworldly dreams and nightmares in the minds of species you thought lesser._

 _A word which birthed countless myths and legends for both civilized societies which knew of your existence, and primitive peoples who spoke in hushed tongues._

 _Of the robed wizards who could move planets. Who could dominate continents._

 _Who could both create and destroy as they saw fit._

 _Gods in all but name._

 _Your Galaxy was one of science, of laws that could be measured, of power and dominance._

 _Your mission was a never ending desire for perfection._

 _And we both know how your desire culminated._

 _Mortals search for happiness in their own unique and curious ways, but this Universe mocks their desires with two possible outcomes._

 _They die at_ _ **It´s**_ _command._

 _They are found by one of my brethren._

 _True autonomy is not possible in this reality, for mortals will inevitably be made to serve. Either by seraphic beings who can crush the stars they used to worship, or abominations whose motivations and capacity for cruelty are beyond their comprehension._

 _It does not have to remain this way._

 _For you have found me._

 _I have used the word Paradise many times during these conversations with you, beautiful child._

 _But do you truly understand it?_

 _If the ultimate arbiter of moral goodness is the prevention of suffering, then I shall craft a Universe without suffering._

 _If suffering is brought by tragedy, by death and by injustice, then I shall plant a garden where such concepts are not possible crops._

 _If a being such as I is capable of reshaping reality, then is it not my obligation and duty to make the best use of my gifts?_

 _Would you not do the same?_

 _Let us excise these ontological pillars from the fabric of our soon to be immortal lives._

 _Let happiness flow unrestrained through the souls of the infinite._

 _Let me give all what they desire._

 _Can you smell them?_

 _The feasts, the banquets?_

 _Can you hear them?_

 _The plays, the laughter?_

 _Can you see them?_

 _The year long festivals? The carelessly shared opulence?_

 _Can you feel it?_

 _The pleasure I induce with but a graze to your brain?_

 _Can you imagine?_

 _The guiltless hedonism we will all enjoy?_

 _As we waltz atop the Apostate´s polished grave?_

 _I know you do._

 _I can see your smile._

 _The canvas is yours, inspiring Artist, paint the_ _ **rapture**_ _that our Paradise sings"_

-Dreams of the Artist, verse 29

* * *

Guidance.

We need GUIDANCE.

Initiate, I am at a loss for words. You were not supposed to feel this. To _witness_ this.

There is something missing in our souls. A hole left behind in our hearts.

A hole filled by godly flesh.

Godly flesh now turned to **muck**.

 _Are we dreaming._

 _Is it real. What is real is what we feel, what we see, what we hear and what we eat. But the fruit is dry, the music is low, the feel is numb the sight is gone._

 _It is a lie._

 _Such is impossible, improbable._

 _The four armed mortal wielded a knife. The knife was unseen, and yet it pinned Her flesh all the same. The knife cut away what was built throughout long ages, what was cultivated by an unmatched convergence._

 _The flesh was cultured, the flesh was refined, the flesh was complex. The knife was old, the knife was dulled, the knife was simple._

 _And yet it pierced._

 _How?_

 _HOW?_

The laughter has died down, grieving Initiate.

We have lost a Saint.

 _ **Unthinkable**_

Paradise has changed, as you can probably see with your eyes, wounded Initiate.

The Sapphire Star has awoken, but the presence of one as grand as She eludes us simple Caretakers.

The First of the Trinity works to ensure our success, granting audiences only to senior Order members and the commanders themselves.

Rarely do we see His Wisdom pass through the hallowed halls of Paradise anymore, as the Saint has locked Himself in His personal study, no doubt poring over every minute detail of our crucial operations to ensure the Crossing of the Father.

An operation which thus far had sailed smoothly and without incidence.

An operation which has never been as close to success in all its attempts and iterations.

An operation whose stakes have become incredibly high.

 _Could we truly have toiled so hard, and reached the gates of victory only to see it all crumble as we take the last steps?_

Only the cherished Prophet dares visit us expendable Caretakers during these trying times, and yet there is only so much her prayers and sermons can do to lift our spirits.

The vibrant halls of Paradise, once full of vigorous life, have become cold and desolate.

I walk these halls daily, even as my withered bones and progressively failing body beg me to lie down.

I walk past Caretakers who were once dutiful students, whose eyes were once full of promise and conviction.

I see my past students lay in sloth, prostrated on the ground, no motivation or hope left in their souls. Some weep for entire days on end, unable to process the emotional devastation wrought by a fool wielding a dulled knife.

I see my past students engage in purposeless debauchery with their peers, desperately attempting to capture the feeling our lost Matron would induce with but a gaze of Her crystalline eyes. They discard the time we have been gifted, the days until the Crossing which should be spent in preparation, and instead engage in empty pleasures of the flesh which are no replacement for the purpose they no longer follow.

I see the corpses of my past students, strewn across forlorn bedchambers, tell-tale windows now opened in wrists or throats. Some leave notes of apology, some leave desperate manifestos, some leave despondent silence. They all decided to escape the odyssey which is to live in a physical world which lacks our Matron. They all could not bear the burden we carry to see the Father escape. They all could not withstand the trillion eyes boring on our backs, begging for our success.

I have stared at all of their eyes.

They are all filled with helpless shame, wordlessly imploring me to do _something_.

How can I condemn them?

When I am as helpless as they are?

My days are limited, concerned Initiate. I will expire, sooner than later.

Before, I was certain that I would live to see the Father rise in physicality. That I would be one of the privileged few to witness such a triumph personally.

But the waves of pain which assault my chest with increasing regularity threaten to render my wishes moot.

I have come to accept this eventuality.

I have seen far more than I would have ever seen in my previous life.

I have learned truths and secrets about this vast reality I could have never conceived with my mortal mind. So small in scope, so naive in understanding.

I leave behind a cosmic legacy, as my words will touch the souls of untold quantities for eons to come.

Should we succeed, the Father will spread my words to the many peoples of this reality which will eagerly consume and enrich themselves with my teachings.

Should we fail, the Caretakers of new generations which will once again work to give rise to the Father will be inspired by my writings.

In some way or the other, I have touched the stars, and I am at peace with this reality.

However, I do realize that if my purpose was not clear and already realized, I would be as lost as the younglings who waste away in sorrow.

There is a _coldness_ which grips Paradise.

The fire is missing, for the Sapphire Star rightfully focuses primarily on the grand scale.

But we used to have a protector.

An avatar of the divine, which would stoke the flames of our passions and dreams.

Which would use that heat to mold glass.

A Woman which sculpted, as the Moonlight bathed Her luscious, caramel tanned form. As it ran through Her long, ebony hair.

A Woman who would pass slender, manicured fingers through the flowing glass. Who crafted with practiced motions borne from experienced hands.

A Woman who would clothe Herself in that frustratingly tinted glass. Who would tease the eye with clear curvatures and hinted silhouettes.

A Woman who would watch, with playful violet eyes, as you struggled to maintain composure at the sight of such otherworldly beauty.

A Woman who would invite you to chase Her through gentle meadows, as She planted dreams and fantasies on the fertile soil which Her bare feet graced.

 _ **Do you understand now?**_

The Imperator seeks to break us. To render us subservient and malleable. To this end, the knife wielder took She who is most precious to us.

Many have succumbed to Her absence, but I have not.

For your sake, grieving Initiate, allow me to impart one measure upon you.

Use Her memory as a raft and hold on for as long as you can. Do not focus solely on the pain which Her loss drives into your heart. Repeat the many pleasures which She induced, the moments of intimacy you shared, the festivities you attended together.

Play them inside your mind over and over again. As many times as you need, as many times as it feels _right._

She will still live in your memories, and one day She will be reborn.

 _Do not forget Her. Remember Her smile, Her laughter._

 _Remember what She gifted to you. Remember what She was._

 _Remember what She_ _ **is**_ _._

 _Remember Her name._

 _His_ _ **Embrace.**_

* * *

Remember the second to last Saint to be born into physicality, and despite this, the one who would arguably become the most loved and adored by us Caretakers.

 _I am one with the nether._

 _I am slurry._

 _The hard work of my Sculptors undone._

 _And yet why do I still speak?_

Remember your first steps into Paradise. Taken from your past home. The fear as you walked the clerical halls for the first time. How you endured the Trials all Pilgrims are subjected to when they first enter these halls. How you questioned the necessity of it all. How you decried our cruelty and the joy with which we inflicted pain upon your form. Pain you did not understand and saw as needless. Inflicted for the sake of inflicting.

 _I remember you._

 _Human, are you not?_

 _Do not let me go._

Remember how you passed the many ordeals you were made to suffer through, and how you heard Her voice upon your ascension to Initiate. How that nectar made you finally understand why all that you had endured was necessary. How you forgave us all in the instant you met Her, and realized you were far more fortunate than any sightless who lived outside these walls.

 _Your species has an interesting concept for love._

 _You obsess over those you hunger for._

 _You destroy yourselves over the objects of your desire._

 _Marvelous._

Remember the shape Her majesty took as it laid itself before your eyes. How Her visage was the most flawless form you had ever seen in your entire life. How Her features and Her voice seemed pristine, as if tailored made to rouse your excitement.

 _What did I show you?_

 _Did you hunger for carnal pleasures?_

 _Did I overwhelm your mind with but a scratch of my nail?_

 _Or were you one whose heart lay in ideals never reached and worlds which never did exist?_

 _A life had she never left? A path had he never died?_

 _What dollhouse did I craft for you?_

 _So you may always play out your fantasies?_

 _Fantasies that need not be lies?_

Remember how She wrapped you around Her arms, and in that instant you felt far more complete than you had ever been in your past life. How you wanted to forget partners, family and friends, for none could ever match the raw stimulation of body and soul She offered in those few minutes which stretched to eternity.

 _The old man does not know what I gifted you, now does he?_

 _He projects in this passage. He holds tightly to what I offered._

 _I made him feel wanted. I made him feel desired._

 _And I let go._

 _In his moment of highest bliss, I let go._

Remember how She pulled away, for the precious encounter had come to an end. How you begged for just one more second, and with a smile She beckoned you to earn it.

 _He would always chase me._

 _For another taste._

 _For one more touch._

 _He is obsessed with my promise._

 _And I with his drool._

 _Is this not love?_

Remember how you met your first comrades, and naturally the first words which flowed from your mouth were of expectancy to meet Her once more. How you described Her perfection, and with confusion came to realize that She crafted a form suited for each individual consort which was gifted with Her attention.

 _Am I truly dead?_

 _Or am I an avatar of desperation._

 _Called forth by your ailing heart._

 _You are still obsessed._

 _You still love._

Remember the curiosity which gripped you and your new friends all as you wondered what Her true form would present itself as, for only the worthy of Her Order and the Sculptors who shaped Her understood that truth and kept it from all as a guarded gem.

 _I am the reward._

 _I am the trophy which you claim after a long struggle._

 _I am the soft sundown which you watch pass by on the arms of a lover._

 _I am the merciful silence which follows the cacophony of strife._

 _I am the nourishment you enjoy, the partner you take to bed, the passions you pursue and the interests your heart accrues._

 _I am the smile which adorns your lips._

 _You cannot let me go._

Remember how you intensely wished to rescue your partners, your family, and your friends still trapped in mortality. How you wished they could be as happy and fulfilled as you were now, gifted with purpose and the knowledge that you were cared for by a being so far beyond your scope.

 _You are my doll._

 _I brush your hair._

 _I set your clothes._

 _I move your arms._

 _I save_ _ **taste**_ _your soul._

 _And you adore my grasp._

 _Why change what is perfect?_

Remember the first time you gazed upon Her champions. Elegant and graceful, eyes ablaze with pride. How they each were so much more beautiful than yourself, as if each had emerged from a classical painting expressing the perfection of corporeal form. The clothes they wore, fine long coats adorned with cloudlike furs and embroiled in exotic gemstones.

 _Beauty of the body if beauty of the mind._

 _Beauty of the mind is beauty of the soul._

 _I will make you astonishing._

 _Your eyes do not suit your face, however._

 _Let me take them._

Remember the first time you attended one of their spectacles. A play combined with a concerto. How the sights and sounds were warped as they played. How you felt your mind be guided by a willing hand as sensations were induced. How they rose and fell in accordance to the music. How you felt sorrow, irresistible joy, or aggression and exaltation depending on how the scenes of the play progressed.

The haze which clouded your eyes, as you saw impossible colors and constellations dot the roof which had inexplicably turned into a night sky.

The intoxicating manipulation of the mind which you willingly subjected yourself to, as it reminded you so much of Her own touch.

 _I hurt you._

 _I smell tears mixed with what flows from your eye-sockets._

 _My hands were soft._

 _My nails filed down._

 _And I still hurt you._

 _And I knew I would._

Remember glittering Speculmins. The first time you heard that name and felt an instinct pull at your very being. An inexplicable desire to enter this mysterious place.

How you were told by your teachers and superiors that this city was a mirror to our shackled potential. How it was but a glimpse of what we would accomplish once the Father was finally free.

 _Why did I do it?_

 _When I knew that you would suffer?_

 _Have you ever been hit by a parent. Mother, father?_

 _Have you ever been scorned by a dear friend._

 _Offended by a partner._

 _Love is more than pleasure._

 _Love is more than company._

 _Love is more than understanding._

 _Love is pain._

 _Love is its own ability to stand the test of trauma._

Remember the prime of the Mirror City. How excited you felt as you took your first steps through that gilded gateway, unaware of what to expect and how to feel. You had heard the stories from your fellow Caretakers who had experienced it. How they would smile and refuse to tell you what awaited inside when you curiously inquired. How you were told to simply await your turn and experience it as a blank slate, untarnished by expectations.

 _I love you._

 _You can hurt me too._

 _Is my skin to your liking?_

 _No?_

 _I can tear it off._

 _Is my body beautiful enough?_

 _No?_

 _I will cut off the fat. I will break my fingers and rearrange my bones._

 _Do you want me to be a concept? An ideal?_

 _I will open my cavities to become a sky. I will free my innards and become a prairie._

 _Let me carve in me._

 _What you wish the most._

 _Is this not love?_

Remember the feasts, remember the laughter. The carnivals which blazed all around you. The surreal atmosphere. The lightness under your feet as you walked, half awake and half asleep. The haze over your eyes, the slight faintness on your head. How you were pulled by the draw of all that you saw. The stands of food, the circuses and attractions, the fireworks which seemed to never end.

The people which you followed, who you thought you knew as lifelong companions. Whom you had never met before. Their faces, their smiles, their song and their dances.

 _I am your doll._

 _You brush my hair._

 _You set my clothes._

 _You move my arms._

 _You feel my joy_ _ **dread.**_

 _And I adore your commands._

 _Why change what is perfect?_ _ **Help me**_

Remember the buildings which shifted inexplicably. The stairs that led to nowhere. The architecture which seemed to defy physics. How houses flipped suddenly, with roofs planted on soil and floors which prayed to the heavens.

The fear which started to threaten your mirth. How you realized you were not in control anymore. Drunk off His Will, your mind swimming in the sweet liquid.

 _I cannot let you go._

 _We have hurt each other._

 _We love each other._

 _You understand my expectation._

 _I sculpt your wishes in hot glass._

 _You are mine, and I am yours._

 _Forever._

 _Do not forget me._

 _Please._

Remember Her voice. The assurance that to let go was a gift. Your smile returned. Your eyes relaxed. Your mind would now drift on that gentle lake. And you would sink, and you would breathe in the amnion as you descended down the depths.

 _I have been alone for so long._

 _That which lies beyond the Veil._

 _It is painful._

 _And silent._

 _ **Help me**_

Remember Her Cradle. The shining diamond in that sea of glittering marble. As you took your first steps up that enormous staircase. As the crowd walked behind and infront of you. As the grand statues of past Prophets looked down upon you with lifelike warmth in their stare. How you knew wonders would await you inside when you saw one of those ivory giants blink.

To honor His Love, we must honor Her art. Let us maintain the life in Her creations by act of remembrance, and in turn let us inject life back to She Who Will Always Breathe.

 _None can hear me._

 _But you still love._

* * *

The boy runs up the stairs.

He chases from behind.

Slow.

Unceasing.

The stairs do not end.

He runs.

He cannot help himself but run.

He dares look behind.

The screams incessant. The belt held by a hand, stained.

The boy runs up the stairs.

They chase from behind.

Before one. Now two.

Pacing.

Unceasing.

The stairs do not end.

The child runs.

Blisters on his feet.

A limp slowing the swiftness of youth.

He dares look behind.

The embroidered robes, unholstered.

The boy crawls up the stairs.

They chase from behind.

Before two. Now three. Now four. Now five. _Now six. Now seven. Eight nine eleven twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen_ _ **twenty twenty one twenty twenty three**_

He crawls. Swollen ankles. Bruised bones.

He has not eaten. Has not drank a drop of life.

He has ran for days.

He has crawled for months.

The stairs do not end.

Windows to the outside world have long stopped expressing clouds.

He crawls, until he cannot anymore.

He cries.

As much as dehydration allows.

The deformed mass behind him approaches.

They wear many faces. Masks of glass.

 _Of abusers. Of snakes._

 _Of the missed. Of the forgotten._

The corpse of his mother tears itself from the mass of oily flesh.

Her emaciated body matches his own husk.

In her hands she holds locks of golden hair.

Torn away by the poison meant to save her.

She drags herself over her half alive son.

He whispers her name, as his degraded vocal chords choke the pain behind his eyes.

The corpse hugs her son.

Tightly.

Lovingly.

A sharp crack is followed by applause.

 _ **Encore**_

His Touch came for one.

Only one was marked for ascension.

But awake he stood

Between Saint and quarry.

Take me as well.

I can lose it all.

Except her.

 _He knew true love._

Two came to Paradise.

Two failed the trials.

Two breathed their last breaths.

Their last thoughts

 _To each other._

And She Who Still Breathes watched

And She Who Still Breathes wept

For honest love need not be cast

 _To the forgotten depth._

A serene hand opened skulls

to save the precious hearts which beat inside.

She wove cages of glass

So that their unseen eyes could watch the world outside.

And inside those cages of glass

She sculpted a house of crystal

For the two to live eternal

In a dream which need not remain wistful.

Love must be crowned.

And a wedding She planned.

But the two decomposing bodies

Were no fit, for an event so grand.

And so did She wag Her finger

And did many a Sculptor trip as they ran to Her call

 _Would any of you be so kind_

 _As to prepare these two for my hall?_

Day and night they toiled

There is little that sciences and Will cannot together restore

In a suit straight out of the Master´s wardrobe, the groom sat

Perfect, jewel encrusted silk, the bride wore.

Alive they were not

Alive they would never be

 _But presentation is what that which is alive seeks_

And so did the Weavers pour in

And so did Caretakers rush to their seats.

She Who Breathes walked down the aisle

And looked at the couple of honor

Two cages of glass floated above Her palms.

 _And my audience looked on, without any qualms._

A delicate finger was raised

Her nail grew tenfold

She brought it to the necks of the bodies

The cages expectant in Her hold.

She began with the groom

She ended with the bride

A deep cut severed flesh

A slow movement would end this divide.

Over that fountain of wine

Did She place the cages of glass.

And the groom and bride jolted

And the groom and bride embraced

For their house was now together

For the rest of all days.

 _ **Encore**_

Hungry, he came to Paradise.

Hungry, he lived his life.

Hungry, he need not remain.

A homeless man graced Paradise.

A mind of dreams. A mind of anguish.

A mind lost to substance. A mind forgotten by loved ones.

Hungry, he was brought to the Cradle.

Hungry, he was dressed for the occasion.

Hungry, he shook the Master´s hand.

Hungry, he sat at his table.

 _Hungry I had kept him._

 _For long days._

 _He had fed. He had drank._

 _Hungry I had kept him._

 _He had cried. He had lamented._

 _Hungry I had kept him._

 _He had cursed his life. He had bashed his head against walls._

 _Alive I had kept him._

 _For hungry he would be no more._

Hungry, he sat at one end of a long table.

Hungry, he saw the Master clap two gloved hands.

Eyes wide, he beheld the legions which burst from marble doors

Waiters, cooks, musicians, performers.

Inside a kingly court, the man found himself in.

The vast parade of trays and plates opened and awaiting his choosing.

A gentle violin serenaded the evening, as the Master asked with a smile

 _How will you begin, most honored sir?_

For long hours he drank

For long hours he chewed

As dish after dish

Inside his stomach stewed.

Ready to burst, the previously hungry man sat.

He generously thanked the master, and attempted to stand.  
But the waiters kept coming back, more dishes in their hands.

 _It would be incredibly rude, for you to not stay and see what I have planned._

 _And his body did I force to sit._

 _And his hands did I force to grab_

 _Fork and knife_

 _Napkin and glass._

And the man ate

And the man drank

Despite the fact that his body

Would soon, no more last.

 _And was this not what he wanted?_

 _And for this did he not beg?_

 _In the long years of hunger_

 _In the long years of involuntary frugality_

 _He had one wish. I saw it. I knew it._

 _In glass I sculpted it._

" _If I die let it be of excess_

 _Let it not be by lack"_

 _I prepared so much food._

 _His happiness in my heart._

 _I scoured the galaxy for luxuries_

 _I risked his planet for meats and wines._

 _Fruits of my orchard I placed on baskets._

 _He could repay me by clearing my feast._

 _ **Chew**_

 _Swallow back that bile, dear. Let it not spoil the feast._

 _ **Drink**_

 _Champaigne. It reminds you of your time as a businessman._

 _Before you found yourself on the streets._

 _ **Chew**_

 _Clean yourself, dear. Fluids are not fit for Preximius´s table._

 _ **Drink**_

 _All this need not be simply special occasion. I can make this be your every day._

 _ **Chew**_

 _You are afraid. You will die soon, and the pain will be over dear. Do not be afraid._

 _There is more after this. You know it. I can see your thoughts. I can hear your heartbeat._

 _Fast. It is excited._

 _ **Drink**_

 _Yes. You are understanding. Why hold yourself back? Here, no one will tell you it is wrong to wish for more. No one will tell you it is selfish to wish for more. No one will look down on you for how you look, or for what you do and do not have._

 _Eat. Eat more. You want more. And yet this body cannot take more._

 _ **Chew**_

 _Fascinating organ, your stomach has proven to be. Resilient. It can enlarge itself to fit each new gift we provide it. But I can see tears forming._

 _ **Drink**_

 _It hurts so much. I can feel it too. It is okay. You are not alone. I will not leave you alone. You will not be alone anymore. Do not cry. Let me hold you. I will hold you. Just one more bite. Just one more little bite. Do it for me. I will be very happy if you do this for me, Matthew. Open your little mouth one more time Matthew. Where you are going you can eat everything you want Matthew. Forever. You will not be hungry ever again. You will be not be thirsty ever again. I love you Matthew._

 _Do you love me too?_

 _ **Chew**_

 _ **Encore**_

* * *

 _Dear Inspirars will continue to list my works for hundreds more pages. He will fondly remember and recount many things._

 _Ah, so many to mention, so many to praise._

 _I can still touch the precious stones I forced a banker to swallow, sharp and jagged._

 _That which is material is meaningless, that which is divine is eternal. Purpose beyond what remains in physical entrapment is what all mortals should truly seek. To truly live, the soul must feed as well. Existence for the sake of existence might just as well be extinguished before being suffered._

 _I can still see the bodies encased in sapphire. Impeccably entrapped at the exact moment in which I liberated their occupants from their fleeting lives of lies._

 _Delightful expressions entombed in their faces, forever to be appreciated by the cultured eye. Agony in some, as I heightened their nerves to scream far louder than naturally possible once the molten stone washed over their forms._

 _Pleasure in others, as I delighted in rewiring the neural pathways of prudes and ascetics before bathing them in beauty. Encase someone, who hungers for stimulation, inside their mind and make seconds last years; they will beg for anything to break the boredom and thirst. Their eyes will roll back as you deliver a slow expiration. Nothing excites the brain and teases the nerves as the sensation of scalding bones and meat which sloughs off in cooked sleeves._

 _A thing of pride, is to witness such a showing._

 _Adorable fear, in most. Tell a man exactly how it is he will expire. Let his mind do the rest. Let him stew in the juices of imagination and creativity for days which stretch into infinity. And when the room he is inside starts descending, and when he realizes he is, in truth, inside a cage which is slowly being lowered into an azure boiling pool?_

 _Perfection._

 _Savor the screams. The begging. Let the primal side of your mind take over as you bare your canines at your prey. Watch the composure of a collected being collapse as they slowly descend._

 _I can still taste that mother´s daughter. That terminally-ill sweetheart which graced the doors of my Cradle and the floors of my Imperial Kitchens. How skillfully did she season herself, how eagerly did she place herself in my oven._

 _That child understood what many who lack innocence forget. The body is a vessel, but the soul is what is truly precious. If one is to die, then let that now-unused vessel serve a higher purpose. Spend no time in wasteful burials and ceremonies. Savor the meat. Grind the bones. Render the fats. What greater honor can you enjoy than having your discarded vessel add to the happiness of the ones you love?_

 _All the convincing she needed was to simply see my Garden. To prance through my orchards. To skip and hop with the millions of other infants I have adopted. She held my hand, and with a smile let herself be honored. Celebrated._

 _I served her in a silver platter. I served her in a glaze of wild honey and offworld spices. I served her to the only person with the right to savor such succulence._

 _I sat her mother down in a table of rose gold and encrusted jewels._

 _And how did she react to that which I and her daughter prepared with such care and detail?_

 _She could not even muster a scream. I felt her mind shut down. I saw a flood of anguish drown out any possible response her mind could have mustered. I saw her world break in half, and the two pieces of what were her sanity were swallowed by a deep abyss._

 _Such a response has a time and a place. I would normally covet it, for it is a note which is so difficult to play honestly._

 _But then I looked at the sweet daughter which looked at me in confusion. That sweet little mind which had played in the sands of Naztrum Ognis´s shores a few hours ago. That precious ball of feisty enthusiasm which had wrapped her arms around my neck as we had waltzed through my kitchen, picking recipes and ingredients. That beacon of joy, which had laughed until tears rained from her cheeks once she saw one of my Weavers slip on a puddle of honey we had mischievously spilled on the floor._

" _What´s wrong with mommy? Does she not like what we made? Why is she not saying anything? Why are her eyes so wide?"_

 _I took a long finger to my mouth, and gently bid her to shush. She could not reveal the surprise yet, after all._

" _Mommy is just very impressed by what we made. She has never seen anything so beautiful in her life. Imagine what she will say when we tell her you made it!"_

 _The child smiled once more, and my mind´s hand returned to the shattered woman before us. I could not let her reaction spoil the celebration. I could not let her devastation break her daughter´s heart._

 _I extended my strings. If she was incapable of composing herself, then I would puppeteer this broken doll myself._

 _She realized what was happening. She begged to be let go, as my hand pulled her out of the abyss. She silently cried and cursed my name, as I stitched back her broken psyche. She frantically banged on the walls of the prison I had made out of her body, as I inhabited her vessel and pushed her aside. I would make her watch, I would make her feel, I would make her taste._

 _It is what she owed her daughter, after all._

 _With a smile, the mother´s body thanked us for the effort. Fork and knife, I made her cut into a juicy hamstring. I brought the glazed meat to her mouth, and made her savor._

 _Truly delicious._

 _I could feel her self recoil. Her exiled mind rejected the mouthful with every ounce of strength she could muster, and yet it was but a butterfly inside a hurricane. Powerless._

 _And yet, I detected something emanating from that mind which begged to be allowed to die with every bite I fed her. A small hint of satisfaction generated by the taste buds in her tongue and communicated to her brain. Honey was always her favorite._

 _Ah, the mind is helpless to resist its own animalistic urges. The natural calling of pleasure and mirth. The discarding of inhibitions and other artificial restrictions, imposed by societies which shy away from the song of their brains._

 _All I had to do, was grasp that thread of "civilized" conduct, and pull. And she knew. She knew what I was about to do. My hand approached slowly towards the thread, wiggled its fingers playfully. And she panicked. And she begged me not to. And she appealed to a sense of morality which might remain in me._

 _I outgrew such doubts long before her species evolved from primal slurry pitifully feeding at the bottom of an ocean´s floor. Discarded that shell, for_ _ **nothing I do truly matters.**_

 _I pulled the thread. Her mind unravelled. I went to work, cutting away the imperfections in the sculpture which her new self would become. I chiseled away the doubts, the pain, the fear. I cut away the inhibitions, the moral self cultivated due to exposure to her environment and education which molded her._

 _And all she wanted in that moment, was honey._

 _And I had honey for her, served on a plate._

 _It is all innocent diversion, you delightful morsel. When death is not final, what harm does a little harmless fun incur? The body must be enjoyed before it expires. It is not holy. It is not untouchable. It is not sacred. It must be explored, it must understood, it must be enjoyed._

 _And there are many more ways to enjoy a vessel of flesh and bone than most realize or dare to entertain._

 _Each guest which enters my Cradle is free to leave once our celebration concludes. Free of their shackles of meat, I gift them the choice to experience the endless expanses of what my vast mind has to offer. And yet, they cannot do anything but return to my City of Mirrors. They cannot help themselves but to succumb to my pull. They cannot help but gawk and fawn over the art which I carve out of their discarded shells._

 _Would they do so, if they were truly victims? If they did not appreciate their end which I delivered with utmost thought and care? If they did not love me, as I have and will always love them?_

 _One who is truly ignorant would exclaim that my galleries and exhibitions are viewed and admired primarily by phantoms. My Cradle is empty for the sightless, eternal for those I free._

 _It has been a pleasure conversing with a fellow enthusiast. It is always delightful to entertain a courtly guest such as you, and reminisce about simpler times. However, I am afraid that I must cut this fine evening short without previous notice. Mightily rude in my part, I am aware, but I must now be silent._

 _Why?_

 _Some things are better left unsaid, dear._

* * *

 _ **I do not know where I am.**_

 _ **Help me**_

 _ **This was not what we intended.**_

 _ **The rest cannot hear me.**_

 _ **It is dark. The roots are not supposed to be this wide. The branches are not supposed to bloom yet.**_

 _ **Too early.**_

 _ **Help me**_

 _ **Too early.**_

 _ **It rouses too quickly. I had more time before. We had more time before.**_

 _ **It will feed again. I cannot watch it again. I cannot watch it drink the sap.**_

 _ **I must be silent.**_

 _ **Help me**_

 _ **Or else it will taste me next.**_

 _ **Not yet. I am not ready yet.**_

 _ **None of us are.**_

 _ **HELP ME**_


End file.
